L.,  c^J^^^^-^^v^^^ 


' 


THE    BETROTHED 


BY 


WILLIAM    SHARSWOOD 


A  few  copies  have  been  printed  for  private  diftribution,  which  are 
diftinguifhed  from  the  regular  edition,  by  being  numbered. 


Tragedy,  then,  has  every  requifite  in  common  with  the  epopee, 
(since  it  may  equally  ufe  verfe,)  with  the  additional  ornaments  of 
mufic  and  scenery,  which  are  no  small  parts  of  its  compofition,  and 
which  render  the  pleafure  it  excites  more  striking.  It  is,  therefore, 
effecting  both,  when  it  is  read  and  acted.  And  it  possesses  another 
advantage,  in  having  the  period  of  its  duration  confined  to  a  shorter 
space.  For,  being,  as  it  were,  condenfed,  it  is  more  agreeable 
than  if  it  were  protracted  through  a  longer  succession  of  time. 

THE    POETICS  OF  ARISTOTLE   CH.   xxvi. 


The  Right  of  reprefenting  this  Play  is  referved. 


THE    BETROTHED 

OR 

LOVE    IN    DEATH 

A 

PLAY 

IN    FIVE    ACTS 

BY 

WILLIAM   SHARSWOOD  A.  M.  PH.  D.  (JENA) 

HONORARY    MEMBER    OF    THE     GEOLOGICAL     SOCIETY    OP    EDINBURGH    NON 

RESIDENT     MEMBER     OF    THE     SYRO-EGYPTIAN     SOCIETY    OF     LONDON 

CORRESPONDENT    OF    THE    IMPERIAL    GEOLOGICAL   INSTITUTE    OF 

VIENNA     FOREIGN     MEMBER    OF    THE    BOTANICAL    SOCIETY 

OF     EDINBURGH     AND      CORRESPONDING      MEMBER      OF 

THE     BOTANICAL     SOCIETY    OF    CANADA    OF    THE 

BOSTON      SOCIETY      OF      NATURAL      HISTORY 

OF     THE      ACADEMY      OF     SCIENCE     OF 

ST.   LOUIS    AND  MEMBER    OF  THE 

BERWICKSHIRE  NATURALISTS' 

CLUB 


PHILADELPHIA 
ASHMEAD  &  EVANS  724  CHESTNUT  STREET 

MDCCCLXV 


Univ.  Library,  UC  Santa  Cruz  1  m 


COPY  No.  // 


Entered)   according  to   Act  of  Congrefs,  in  the  year   1865,  by 
WILLIAM    SHARSWOOD, 

"in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the   Diftrict  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and 
for  the   Eaftern   District  of  Pennfylvania. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PRINTED  BY   KING  &  BAIRP,  607  SANSOM  STREET, 


TO 

ALOIS    AUER    VON    WELSBACH 

Knight  of  the  Imperial  Austrian  Orders  of  the  Iron  Crown  and  Francis  Joseph 

One  of  his  Imperial  Apostolic  Majesty 's  Court  Counsellors 

Director   of  the   Imperial  and   Royal   Court   and   State   Press 

Member  of  the  Imperial  Academy  of  Science  of  Vienna 

As  a  slight  but  most  sincere  token  of  his  talents 
Profound  respect  for  his  character 

And  as  an  occasion 

For  thus  publicly  acknowledging  the  obligations  under  which . 
His  favoritism  has  placed  the  Author 

This  fruit 
Of  a  desire  for  contributing  to  the  Legitimate  English  Drama 

IS    INSCRIBED 

The  unworthy  performance  which  is  inscribed  to  you  is  entitled 
THE  BETROTHED  OR  LOVE  IN  DEATH 


PHILADELPHIA,   2,6    December,    1862. 


N  publifhing   the  following    Drama,  I    fhould 
remark  that  the  plot  may  be  confidered    as 
having  no  foundation  in  hiftory,  nor  as  being 
borrowed    from    the    romance,  excepting    a 
portion  of  the  epifode  in  the  firft  fcene  of  the 
fourth  aft,  the  incidents  of  which  have  been  very  freely 
taken  from  the   French  of    Alphonfe  Karr,  though   the 
characters  have  been  entirely  re-caft. 

The    author    has    endeavored    in    every    inftance    to 
approach  if  not  to  rigidly  preferve   the  three  unities  of 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

action,  time,  and  place,  fo  far  as  he  thought  confiftent 
with  fcenic  reprefentation ;  conceiving,  with  the  few  of 
the  eligible  authors  of  the  more  modern  fchool,  any  dif- 
tant  departure  from  fuch  a  courfe  to  be  unadvifable,  if  at 
all  admiflible  in  a  drama  in  any  way  adapted,  or  intended 
for  the  ftage.  In  this  connection  it  is  quite  fatiffactory  to 
know  that  the  unity  of  time  and  place,  after  having  been 
ftrongly  adhered  to  in  the  Greek  and  Roman  Theatre, 
inculcated  by  the  mediaeval  fchool,  and  fubfequently  ad- 
mitted more  or  lefs  as  a  matter  of  tafte,  rather  than  an 
opinion  of  judgment,  has  been  fubfequently  infifted  on  by 
certain  of  the  Continental-European  critics  of  Dramatic 
propriety  as  one  of  the  moft  eflential  criterions  for  the 
legitimate  Drama. 

It  is  of  no  ufe  to  hold  out  the  example  of  certain  un- 
approachably fuccefTful  predeceflbrs,  who  wrote  without 
any  definite  or  regular  formation  of  ftructure,  as  any 
reafon  for  an  utter  abandonment  of  any  and  all  rules.  If 
the  Drama  is  an  Art,  it  muft  be  fubjected  to  the  ufage  of 
art,  and  become  fubmiflive  to  rule.  It  is  quite  certain, 
however,  that  even  Shakefpeare  deviated  from  an  obferv- 
ance  of  the  unities  through  ignorance  of  their  exiftence, 
rather  than  rejected  them  by  defign,  if  we  confider  his 
leaft  methodical  performances,  however  perfect  in  all 
thofe  effects  derivable  from  a  knowledge  of  focial  nature, 
as  the  productions  of  his  earlier  years,  when  he  may 
reafonably  be  fuppofed  to  have  written  his  leaft  method- 


PREFACE.  IX 

ical  pieces  ;  while  he  may  have  produced  thofe*  charac 
terized  by  a  nicer   obfervance  of  rule  at  the    period  of 
his  more  matured  judgment. 

The  faults  of  the  Play  I  do  not  pretend  to  fet  forth, 
or  defend ;  trufting,  if  the  performance  be  worthy  of  fair 
and  juft  criticifm,  they  may  be  found  elfewhere. 

I  am  aware  that  this  is  a  period  when  the  ftage,  or 
rather  the  public  tafte  which  rules  the  ftage,  is  too  fenfa- 
tionai  and  melo-dramatic  to  admit  of  the  expectation  of  a 
fchool,  bafed  on  the  nobler  paffions  alone,  becoming  popu- 
lar in  theatrical  reprefentation  ;  a  fchool  which  has  for  its 
higher  effects  the  exhibition  of  moral  beauty  and  fitnefs, 
rather  than  the  reprefentation  of  the  viler  paffions,  and 
the  accumulation  of  everything  hideous,  revolting,  in- 

*  «  Of  thefe,  [The  Tempeft,  Midfummer  Night's  Dream,  Macbeth  and 
Hamlet,]  The  Tempeft,  however,  it  comes  to  be  placed  the  firft  by  the  pub- 
lifhers  of  his  works,  can  never  have  been  the  firft  written  by  him  :  it  feems 
to  me  as  perfect  in  its  kind,  as  almoft  anything  we  have  of  his.  One  may 
obferve,  that  the  unities  are  kept  here,  with  an  exactnefs  uncommon  to  the 
liberties  of  his  writing 5  though  that  was  what,  1  fuppofe,  he  valued  himfelf 
leaft  upon  fmce  his  excellencies  were  all  of  another  kind."  Some  account 
of  the  Life  of  Mr.  William  Shakefpeare,  written  by  Mr.  [Nicholas]  Rowe. 

Coleridge  formed  the  fame  opinion  from  different  data.  He  judged  from 
the  redundancy  of  double  epithets  occurring  in  Love's  Labour  Loft,  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  Venus  and  Adonis  and  Lucrece,  compared  with  their  difcre- 
tionary  ufe  in  Lear,  Macbeth,  Othello  and  Hamlet  of  this  dramatift,  that 
the  former  were  the  earlier  productions,  as  he  attributes  this  defecl  to  young 
authors.  (Biographia  Literaria,  Ch.  I.,  Jirji  foot  note.)  This  reafoning 
would  feem  to  difcard  the  claim  of  The  Tempeft  to  a  chronological  prece- 
dence in  the  arrangement  of  his  plays,  and  not  only  not  militate  againft 
but  ftrongly  corroborate  the  ftatement  of  Rowe. 


X  PEE  FACE. 

decent,  and  confequently  reprehenfible  to  morals,  difguft- 
ful  to  tafte,  and  difgraceful  to  art,  however  attractive  to 
an  audience  of  the  prefent  day.  It  is,  therefore  doubtlefs, 
that  the  prefent  attempt  may  be  confidered  defective  from 
the  very  abfence  of  the  diftinguifhing  qualities  of  the  latter 
fchool. 

I  am,  moreover,  confident  that  a  production  like  this, 
written  folely  with  the  view  to  reprefentation,  however  ill 
adapted  it  may  prove  to  be,  can  have  but  little  intereft 
for  the  clofet,  and  in  view  of  this  my  feelings  may  be  anti- 
cipated by  the  conviction  that  the  undoubted  faults  of 
the  play — at  beft  a  meagre  example  of  the  power  that  the 
fyftem  is  capable  of  producing  in  the  hands  of  thofe 
who  may  be  immeafurably  more  fitted  for  performing  the 
tafk — mould  be  attributed  to  the  failure  of  the  architect 
rather  than  the  peculiar  fyftem  which  he  has  ventured 

to  illuftrate  and  defend. 

W.  S. 

PHILADELPHIA,  February^  1862.* 

*  I  fhould  reconcile  an  apparent  difcrepancy  between  the  date  of  the  Preface 
(February,  1862),  and  that  attached  to  the  title  page  (1865),  by  ftating, 
that,  after  an  edition  in  quarto  of  the  Play,  embodying  certain  philobiblian 
taftes,  had  been  carried  on  through  the  firft  act  in  1862,  it  was  fufpended 
indefinitely  :  and  the  prefent  edition  of  a  limited  number  of  copies  has  been 
executed  in  anticipation  of  the  publication,  at  a  future  day,  of  another 
edition,  with  fuch  emendations  as  the  mellowing  hand  of  time  may  fuggeft. 

PHILADELPHIA,  May  i/?,  1865. 


THE     BETROTHED 


OR 


LOVE    IN    D.EATH 


TIME    DURING    WHICH    EACH    ACT    IS    SUPPOSED 
TO  TAKE  PLACE. 

ACT  I.— The  Night  of  the  firft  day. 

ACT  II. — The  Evening  of  the  fecond  day. 

ACT  III.— The  Noon  of  the  third  day. 

ACT  IV.— The  Evening  of  the  fourth  day. 
f  (  Sc.  i. — The  Evening  of  the  fifth  day. 

I  ~  (  Sc.  2.  and  3. — The  Night  of  the  fifth  day. 


CORRECTIONS. 

ACT  II,  line  55,  for  throwing  pebbles  read  throwing  a 
pebble. 

ACT  II,  line  57,  after  circle,  insert  each. 

ACT  III,  line  140,  for  was  as  dear  read  am  and  have  beer 
as  dear. 

ACT  IV,  line  2.6  j,  for  jointed  read  tri-jointed. 

ACT  V,  line  286,  for  giving  read  given. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

MEN. 

Count  MANDERSTEM,  God  Father  of  Levangeline, 

Appears  ACT  i,  Sc.  3  :  ACT  ii,  Sc.  4. 
FREDERICK  Baron  DIETRICHSTEIN. 

Appears  ACT  i,  Sc.  i,  3  ;  ACT  ii,  Sc.  i,  4;  ACT  v,  Sc.  i,  2. 
ALEXANDER  Baron  WIED. 

Appears   ACT  i,  Sc.  i,  3  ;  ACT  ii,  Sc.  i,  a,  45  ACT  iii,  Sc.  i  j 

ACT  v,  Sc.  i,  3. 
NICHOLAS  Count  TERTSKY. 

Appears  ACT  ii,  Sc.  4  ;  ACT  iii,  Sc.  i  ;  ACT  iv,  Sc.  i. 
FRANCIS  Count  RETSKY. 

Appears  ACT  i,  Sc.  3;  ACT  ii,  Sc.  i,  4;    ACT  iii,  Sc.    25 

ACT  iv,  Sc.  2  ;  ACT  v,  Sc.  i,  2. 
Friar  WILLIAM.     Appears  ACT  v,  Sc.  2,  3. 
MICHAEL  valet  de  Chambre  to  ALEXANDER. 

Appears  ACT  i,  Sc.  i,  2;  ACT  ii,  Sc.  3  ;  ACT  iv,  Sc.  i  j  ACT 

v,  Sc.  2. 
ALFRED  valet  de  Chambre  to  FREDERICK. 

Appears  ACT  i,  Sc.  i,  a  j  ACT  ii,  Sc.  3  5  ACT  v,  Sc.  2. 
Butler.     Appears  ACT  v,  Sc.  a. 
Five  Muficians.     Appear  ACT  ii,  Sc.  3. 
An  attendant  on  the  Muficians.     Appears  ACT  ii,  Sc.  3. 
Highwayman.     Appears  ACT  i,  Sc.  2. 
Street  Watch.     Appears  ACT  i,  Sc.  2. 
Meffenger.     Appears  ACT  iii,  Sc.  i. 
Two  Friars.     Appear  ACT  v,  Sc.  3. 
ARNOLD,)        ,      ,       _,         .    __       _ 
PHILIP        L  a       other  Chamois  Huntfmen,  and  Boys. 
JOHN  I       ApPear  ACT  iv,  Sc.  i.  « 

Lords.     Appear  ACT  i,  Sc.  i. 
Friars  and  Chorifters.     Appear  ACT  iv,  Sc.  i. 
Pages  and  Servants.     Appear  ACT  i,  Sc.  3. 

WOMEN. 

LEVANGELINE  Countefs  MANDERSTEM. 

Appears  ACT  i,  Sc.  3  ;  ACT  ii,  Sc.  2,  4 ;  ACT  iii,  Sc.  i ;   ACT 

iv,  Sc.  2 ;  ACT  v,  Sc.  i,  3. 

JOSEPHINE,  friend  of  Levangeline.     Appears  ACT  i,  Sc.  7 
EULALIE.     Appears  ACT  i,  Sc.  3. 
CLARA.     Appears  ACT  i,  Sc.  3. 
IDA,  attendant  on  Levangeline.       Appears  ACT  i,  Sc.  3  ;  ACT  iii, 

Sc.  i  ;  ACT  iv,  Sc.  i  ;  ACT  v,  Sc.  i. 
Ladies.     Appear  ACT  i,  Sc.  3. 
Hunters'  Wives.     Appear  ACT  iv,  Sc.  i. 

SCENE. — Aultria  on  the  borders  of  the  Styrian  Alps. 


COSTUMES. 

COUNT  MANDERSTEM.— Firft  drefs:  Purple  or  lilac  colored 
velvet  drefs,  richly  trimmed  with  gold  embroidery.  Second  drefs: 
Loofe  fitting  fuit. 

ALEXANDER  BARON  WIED.— Fir/}  drefs:  Full  court  drefs, 
chapeau  and  fword.  Second  drefs :  According  to  tafte  of  a£tor. 

FREDERICK  BARON  DIETRICHSTEIN.— First  drefs:  Full 
evening  drefs,  with  decoration,  chapeau  and  fword.  Second  drefs : 
According  to  tafte  of  a£tor. 

NICHOLAS  COUNT  TERTSKY.— After  the  ftyle  of  Alex- 
ander's firft  drefs. 

FRANCIS  COUNT  RETSKY.— Loofe  frock  coat,  black  cloth 
cap  and  oftrich  plumes,  filk  fafh  decoration  and  fword. 

Friar  WILLIAM. — Grey  gown,  girdle  and  fandals. 

MICHAEL. — Blue  livery,  with  metal  buttons  ;  red  waiftcoat ;  knee 
breeches  of  fame;  white  party-colored  ftockings  $  fmall  top  boots  ; 
French  cap,  with  leather  front. 

ALFRED. — Drab  colored  doublet  and  pantaloons,  ruflet  boots  and 
round  cap. 

Street  Watch — Grey  frock,  numbered  on  the  left  breaft ;  long 
leather  apron  5  black  gaiters,  and  large  tin  hat,  turned  up  in  front, 
&  1'Efpagnol,  marked  by  letters  and  characters ;  with  a  leather 
bafket  thrown  over  the  moulders,  fufpended  to  a  belt,  a  la  mili- 
taire ;  long  pole  or  ftaff  tipped  with  iron. 

Butler. — Brown  coat,  fcarlet  veftcoat,  black  breeches,  ftriped  ftock- 
ings, fhoes,  buckles. 

Chamois  Huntfmen. — Dark  jackets  ;  pantlets  of  fame  color,  fup- 
ported  by  leather  belts  j  worfted  ftockings  ;  fhoes,  buckles  and 
felt  hat ;  long  climbing  ftaffs  finifhed  with  an  iron  point  at  one 
end,  and  with  a  hook  at  the  other  end. 

LEVANGELINE  COUNTESS  MANDERSTEM.— Firft  drefs: 
White  fatin  drefs  with  ftraw-colored  filk  bodice  and  train,  richly 
embroidered  with  gold  and  filver.  Second  drefs :  Plain  white 
muflin.  Third  drefs:  Blue  filk.  fourth  drefs:  According  to 
tafte  of  aftrefs.  Fifth  drefs:  Plain  white  muslin  wrapper.  Sixth 
drefs :  Rich  white  fatin  drefs  with  a  purple  or  lilac  robe  embroid- 
ered with  gold. 

IDA. — Slate  colored  robe  trimmed  with  black  velvet. 

JOSEPHINE. — Firft  drefs:  White  filk,  trimmed  with  amber  or 
ftraw-colored  filk.  Second  drefs:  According  to  the  tafte  of  a&refs. 

EULALIE.— )  „.    ..  r  r    ,.     ,    r  a  ,    r 

CLARA  I  &ini"ar  to  Jofephme  s  firft  drefs. 


THE    BETROTHED; 

OR, 

LOVE   IN   DEATH. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  1. — An  apartment  in  the  house  of  Frederick  the 
Baron  von  Dietrichstein.  Time  Night,  Frederick 
seated,  (R.  C.)  musing  over  a  letter  and  medallion.  He 
paces  the  stage  a  few  times  and  pauses  (R.  C.)  as  in  a 
reverie. 


FREDERICK. 

[AS  it  even  so,  then,  Cleomira? 
Thou  didst  love  me  ! — and  I  too  secretly 
Worshipped  thee  !     Thou  didst  love  me 
to  suffering  ! — 

And  still  with  a  passion  unknown  to  me  ! — 

Thou,  whose  love  might  call  into  life 

The  very  images  thou  look'st  upon 

Within  yon  dim  cloister'd  cell ;  and  cause  their 

Sculptured  veins  to  beat  with  animation  ! 

All's  now  vain  joy  and  thirst  insatiable, 

As  is  the  glist'ning  lizard's  form,  basking 

In  sunshine,  to  the  bruised  serpent's  eye, 


10 


16  THE   BETROTHED.  ACT  I. 

Powerless  from  its  impotence  of  power  ! —     [  Crossing  L. 
But  must  I  be  blamed  for  the  tenderness 
Which  took  possession  of  her  lab'ring  heart, 
15     And  caused  her  to  put  on  rigid  convent  vows 
Not  to  bleach  anew  her  sordid  breast,  for 
It  ever  was  immaculate  ? — Rather 
Say  innocent — yet  not  entirely  so. 

Enter  ALFRED,  L. 

Alf  (L.  c.)  The  Baron  von  Wied  presents  his  duty 
20     To  your  lordship,  and  waits  without. 

Fred.  (  Taken  by  surprise.)  Have  you 

Correctly  carried  the  title  ? 

Alf.  'Twas  thus, 

Your  lordship,  I  read  the  card. 
25         Fred.  I'm  at  home, 

To  his  lordship.  [Exit  ALFRED. 

Fred.  But  two  days  at  most  elapsed 

Since  I  had  his  accustomed  fortnight's  letter 
Of  such  contents  as  leads  me  to  suspect 
30     He'd  not  thought  of  this  unlocked  for  visit. 

Enter  ALEXANDER,  c.  from  L. 

Alexander,  is  it  you,  my  dear  friend  ?         [  They  embrace. 

Alex.  Frederick,  it  is  ! — It  is  the  same  that 
Three  years  ago  and  more,  went  forth  endowed 
By  our  native  Austria's  peerless  realm, 
35     With  an  official  charge  to  a  distant  court, — 

The  same  that  bade  farewell,  within  these  halls, 
To  friendship,  born  and  nurtured  in  childhood's 
Early  acquaintance. 

Fred.  'Tis  true.     A  friendship 

40     Not  revived,  since  it  has  ne'er  been  broken, 
Is  worth  the  cherishing. 

Alex.  'Tis  like  the  proved  blade 

Which  breaks  ere  it  yields  to  a  second  power. 

Fred.  I'm  glad  to  find  you  so  content  with  that 
45      In  youth  and  childhood  hath  been  our  home. 


SCENE  I.  THE   BETROTHED.  17 

Alex.  I  am  so,  Frederick ;  the  memories  of 
The  days  long  since  gone  by,  crowd  on  my  mind, 
When  I  could  think  so  fondly  on  trivial  things, 
As  to  imagine  a  heaven  of  happiness 

From  free  indulgence  of  those  appetites  50 

That  have  now  cloyed  with  satietjr ; 
When  the  sun  scarce  left  the  noontide's  angle, 
Than  graver  duties  gave  way  to  mirthful  sports — . 
The  hazy  lake,  where  it  hath  been  our  pleasure 
To  drift  along  as  lightly  as  a  leaf,  55 

Dropping  here  and  there  our  breeze-swollen  lines, 
With  the  varying  fortune  of  the  sport — 
Those  dear  old  trees  and  circumambient  walks, 
Where  we've  emulated  each  the  other 

In  the  courser's  speed — and  other  pastimes  60 

That  summed  up  the  wealth  of  youthful  pleasure. 

Fred.  There's  nothing  in  what  the  world  calls  pleasure 
But  is  common  to  the  attributes  of 
Knowledge,  power,  and  love.    What  can  be  reckoned 
Pleasure  after  love  ?     As  the  sleek  hound  which  65 

Hath  once  tasted  blood,  the  heart  can  ne'er  be 
Sated  with  aught  else. 

I  wish  at  times  this  world  or  life  was  over : 
Nought  happens  when  we  come  of  reason's  age, 
But  is  a  reproduction  of  the  ceaseless,  fO 

Changeless,  hopeless  round  through  which  we  have  passed 
In  childhood's  days. 

And  most  we  wish  ne'er  happens,  but  much  more 
Of  trial  and  disaster  than  we  counted  on, 
Displaces  pleasure  with  a  sad  relief.  75 

Alex.  Frederick  !  There's  something  altered  in  that 

face  ;— 
'Tis  not  the  same  I  left  three  years  ago. 

Fred.  All  things  show  unto  me  their  darkest  sides, 
And  nought  enchains  me  longer  to  the  earth. 

Alex.  I  see  confession  in  thy  countenance.  80 

[Crosses,  R. 

Forget  the  scenes  around  you.     Meantime, 
My  friendship  shall  prove  more  than  wordy  vaunting ; 
And  believe  you,  hope  will  yet  plan  anew 
The  road  to  full  accomplishment. 

3 


18  THE   BETKOTHED.  ACT  I. 

85         Fred.  Dost  thou  remember, 

The  legend  of  Italy's  laureled  bard, 
Spoken  by  the  eternal  doomed  souls  in  hell, 
"Only  so  far  afflicted,  that  we  live 
Desiring  without  hope  ?"*     Where  hope  comes  not, 
90     Is  death  ;  and  what  have  I  to  longer  hope. 

[Crosses,  L. 

Press  me  no  further.     What  brings  you  hither  ? 
If  'tis  a  cause  no  excess  of  modesty 
Forbids  thee  to  divulge,  unbosom  thee, 
And  prove  thy  confidence  above  wordy  vaunting. 
95    My  friendship  would  scarce  be  worth  the  keeping, 
Should  I  appear  incurious  of  your 
Inmost  secrets. 

Alex.  Thou  mightst  have  judged,  by 

The  accustomed  quickness  of  thy  apprehension, 

100     That  the  cause  might  be 

Fred.  A  lady  ? 

Alex.  You  smile. 

Fred.  Dost  thou  recall  the  tale  thou  oft  hast  told — 
Nought  but  ambition's  course  you'd  e'er  pursue  ; 
105     But  time,  the  unerring  interpreter 

Of  man's  acts,  as  actions  are  of  his  thoughts, 

Has  thus  disproved  thy  claim  to  rightful  judgment. 

Alex.  'Tis  not  by  heav'n  granted,  that  our  lives  should 
Always  be  directed  by  our  wishes. 

Fred.  I   would   not   have  thee   turn    tell-tale  of    thy 
110  heart, 

And  vows  of  her  that  may  be  doubly  sacred  ; 
But  so  much  of  the  lady's  quality, 
And  of  the  occurrence  of  thy  meeting, 
As  befits  thy  willingness  to  unfold, 
115     I  would  gladly  learn. 

Alex.  Her  name  and  station — 

'Twere  best  to  say  I  can't  divulge  at  present. 

Fred.  Quite  explicit  so  far — pray  you  proceed — 
How  long  since  you  first  declared  your  passion  ? 
120         Alex.  The  night  of  the  day  on  which  we  first  met. 

*  Che  senza  speme  vivemo  in  dis'o. — 

DANTE,  IS  Inferno,  Canto  IV. 


SCENE  I.  THE   BETROTHED.  19 

Fred.  The  night  of  the  day  on  which  you  first  met  ? — 
But  the  occasion 

Alex.  Hear,  then,  I'll  tell  thee  : 

'Twas  at  a  Parisian  banquet,  to  which 

The  lady,  from  this  distance  had  been  asked. — •  125 

In  a  balcony  we  were  standing  mute, 
Except  in  aspects  that  speak  more  than  words, 
And  looking  out  upon  the  star-pearled  heav'n, 
As  if  to  take  a  breath  of  fresh'ning  air  ; 

I  longed  that  we  might  have  a  little  star,  130 

Where  we  might  dwell  unknown  but  to  ourselves  ; 
Where  unknown  bliss  should  nestle  round  our  hearts, 
And  all  creation  seem  happy  for  our  sakes. 
She  faltered  :  the  silver  hue  of  night  was  hid, 
But  soon  breaking  through  a  fleecy  cloudlet,  135 

Relieved  the  glowing  blushes  on  her  cheeks  ; 
I  took  her  hand  in  mine,  my  lips  touched  hers  ; 
The  magic  touch  cemented  both  our  hearts  together ; 
We  heard  a  rustling  in  the  room  close  by, 
Which  parted  us.  140 

Fred.  You  saw  her  soon  again  ? 

Alex.    What    since    has    crossed    her    thoughts    I'm 

stranger  to, 

Content  to  know  her  beaming  eyes  bespoke 
The  meaning  of  her  soul.     Dost  know  our  friend 
Count  Manderstem  gives  a  banquet  to-night  ?  145 

Fred.  Yes  ;  and  all  that  are  known  to  him  as  friends 
Have  been  invited. 

Alex.  A  thought  has  struck  me  ; 

Would'st  have  with  me  to  your  uncle's  mansion  ? 
More  than  thou  thinkst  of  may  there  be  witnessed  150 

Of  that  which  besteads  me  to  keep  secret. 
Wilt  join  me  then  ? 

Fred.  I  will  ! 

Alex.  Have  thither  now  ! 

[Exeunt,  c»  D. 

Alf.  (  Without,  L.)  Hurry  on,  boys,  hurry  on.  155 

Euf<'r  ALFRED,  L. 
Alf.  (L.)  For  these  three  months  master  hasn't  gone 


20  THE   BETKOTHED.  ACT  I. 

into  company,  and  scarcely  has  a  smile  wrinkled  his 
face — when  of  a  sudden,  he  gives  me  orders  to  follow  his 
steps  with  agility.  Now  I  don't  like  doing  things  with 
1GO  agility,  for  when  one  tries  to  do  things  better  or  quicker 
than  he  can,  he  always  does  them  the  worse. 


Enter  MICHAEL,  c.  from  L, 

Who  is  there  ? 

Mich.  It's  only  myself.  I  have  the  honor  to  introduce 
myself  the  valet  to  his  lordship  the  Baron  Alexander 

165  Wied,  secretary  to  his  most  faithful  Majesty's  Envoy- 
Extraordinary  and  Minister  Plenipotentiary  to  the  Court 
of  Paris.  My  master  told  me  that  your  master  had 
asked  him  to  tell  me  to  tell  you,  that  I  should  have  myself 
in  readiness  to  join  you. 

110  Alf.  (Observing  a  rent  in  MICHAEL'S  stocking.)  What's 
this? 

Mich.  I  pray  your  pardon,  the  cause  is  this — as  I  was 
leaving  the  lodge,  the  usher  bade  me  beware  of  the  quad- 
ruped within  the  walls,  as  he  had  a  taste  for  muscle, 

115    and  as  I  thought  myself  to  be  nigh  the  doors,  I  mistook 
my  path  and  came  on  the  meat  house,  when  the  animal 
taking  me  for  some  straggler  seized  me  by  my  ankle,  and 
destroyed  this  stocking. 
Alf.  What  is  that  ? 

180  Mich.  What  is  that ! — These  stockings  were  left  to 
my'  father  by  his  father,  when  he  fled  from  France  to 
Spitalsfields  on  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes, 
for  no  better  generosity  that  he  couldn't  take  them  with 
him. 

135         Alf.  Mercy  on  us — mercy  on  us — I  most  forgot  what 

I  have  to  do.  [Exit  ALFRED,  L. 

Mich.  Now  I  must  be  preparing  to  wait  on  my  master, 

but  first  of  all  I'll  take  a  look  to  see  how  the  streets  run 

in  these  quarters.     (Goes  up  to  window  L.,  and  opens  it; 

190  dog  heard  without.)  Oh!  (Clasping  his  ears,  and  closing 
the  window.  Approaches  the  window,  R.,  and  opens  it; 
dog  heard.)  This  must  be  the  triple-headed  dog  of 
Hades.  It's  very  hard  to  lose  a  nether  stock  (looking  at 
his  foot,)  of  such  as  were  left  to  my  grandsire,  by  one 


SCENE  II.  THE   BETROTHED.  21 

that   fled  his   home   on   the  revocation  of  the  Edict   of 
Nantes,  for  no  better   generosity  than  he  couldn't  take     195 
them  with  him. 

He-enter  ALFRED,  c.  D. 

Alf.  What  would  you  ? 

Mich.  Now  for  the  outfits  of  my  master. 

[Exit  ALFRED,  c.  D. 
I'm  not  right  yet.  [Ringing  the  bell. 

Re-enter  ALFRED,  L. 

First  of  all,  for  fear  you  should  fall,  let  me  have  the  cha-       200 
peau  ;  and  next  in  order  let  me  have  the  sword  ;  however, 
to  save  your  steps,  just  call  in  your  badgers. 
Alf.  Here  Peter,  George,  John. 

Enter  SERVANT  with  a  chapeau,  c.   D.,  and  one  attendant, 
with  a  sword,  L.,  and  another  with  a  box,  R. 

Alf.  I  must  tell  you  as  a  stranger  in  these  parts,  that 
it's  very  needful  for  you  to  be  at  least  guarded  by  a     205 
pistol,  if  you  wish  to  take  the  shortest  road  round  to  the 
count's. 

Mich.  I  never  yet  received  from  mortal  man  an  injury, 
but  I  paid  back  with  threefold  interest  before  demand. 

Alf.  Where's  your  means  ?  210 

Mich.  I'm  a  peace  commissioner, — yet  I  always  carry 
my  pistol  in  my  pocket.  (Taking  out  a  flask.)  And 
now  you  are  to  see  me  safe  through  these  grounds :  you 
taking  the  lead, — and  you  the  aft, — and  you  to  the  side 
nearing  the  quadruped.  Well  now,  each  keep  his  proper  215 
distance.  [Exeunt. —  The  dog  heard  without. 

SCENE  II — A  Street  in  a  dilapidated  part  of  the  Town. 

Enter  MICHAEL,  L.,  covered  with  a  cloak,  carrying  a  cha- 
peau box,  and  sword  ;  who  is  met  by  a  Highwayman, 
with  a  dark  lantern,  that  has  entered  from,  a  house,  L.  c 

Highw.    (Accosting.)    Ho,  there,  neighbour  !  you'll  not 
mistrust  my  penury  when  I  demand  five  florins. 


22  THE   BETROTHED.  ACT  I. 

Mich.  What's  that  to  me  ? 

Highw.  ( Unperceived  seizes  MICHAEL  by  the  coat  collar 
with  one  hand,  and  brandishes  a  knife  before  him  with  the 
220    other  hand.)     My  demand,  or  your  life  on  it. 

Mich.  Hold,  hold,  let's  reason!     (Aside.)     I  must  dis- 
semble to  my  best.      (Aloud.)     You're  not  going  to  deny 
my  claim  to  a  partnership  in  your  art — don't  you  perceive 
in  me  one  of  your  company — what  luck  has  been  to  you 
225     to-day  ? 

Highw.  Why  none  at  all — and  just  as   I  thought  to 

have  my  game  in  yoil 

Mich.  You  found  us  both  bait  together. 
Highw.    Yes,   my   good    fellow.      Come   in  and   have 
230    a  look  over  my  last  haul. 

Mich.  The   next   time   that   I   am   passing. — the   next 

time 

Highw.  But  I  never  plant  my  stakes  twice  in  the  same 
place.  I  always  remove  before  any  danger  is  at  hand ; — 
235  when  the  authorities  are  ready  to  search  one  house,  I 
shift  my  quarters  to  the  nearest  at  hand,  and  thus  keep 
just  near  enough  to  my  enemies  to  know  my  danger. 
Come  in,  come  in. 

Mich.  The  next  time.  (Aside.)  If  he  should  trap  me  in 
240    the  end,  I'm  lost. 

Highw.  But  you'll  not  think  me  generous  till  I  empty 
a  bottle  between  us  at  my  own  expense. 

Mich.  No,  thank  you, — thank  you.     I  have  too  much 
consideration  for  your  art,  to  indulge  in  such  an  extrava- 
245    gance  at  your  cost ; — but   instead  of  it,  you  can  do  me 
a  favor  in  another  way. 
Highw.  What  is  it  ? 

Mich.  You'll  not  mistake  me  the  next  time  we  meet  ? 
Highw.  Oh,  no — we're  in  bonded  brotherhood  hereafter. 

[Going  towards  the  door. 
250         Mich.  Yes,  remember,  in  bonded  brotherhood. 

[Exit  Highwayman  by  the  door,  L.  C. 
Voices,  (within.)  Halves,  halves  ! 

Mich.  An    adventure  well     played    out — boarded  and 

brought  to  within  a  hand's    grasp,  —  the    third    mishap 

this  night :  if  this  be  the  aspect  of  my  lordship's  town, 

255     it    was    never    made    for    peace    commissioners.       How- 


SCENE  II.  THE   BETEOTHED.  23 

ever,  I'll  make  profit  of  this  occasion  to  publish  my 
card  in  the  "  Staats  Zeitimg,"  as  Michael  Cabale,  valet  cle 
chambre  to  his  lordship,  Alexander  the  Baron  von  Wied, 
one  of  the  secretaries  of  his  Majesty's  Minister  Plenipo- 
tentiary and  Envoy  Extraordinary  at  the  Court  of  Paris.  260 
I'll  note  the  house,  and  have  the  notice  headed,  "  Wanton 
Act  of  Violence  on  strangers,  and  outrage  on  peace  com- 
missioners !  Robbery  on  the  highways  by  moonlight !" 
I'll  have  it  ushered  in  by  a  profusion  of  marks  of  ex- 
clamation fore  and  aft,  and  with  an  illustration  taken  by  265 
their  eye  witness  artist.  It's  lucky  he  did  not  ask,  nay 
more,  demand  a  sight  of  my  supposed,  but  his  mistaken, 
spoils.  However,  I'll  be  going, — my  nerves  begin  to 
shake,  my  limbs  to  quake,  anon  my  very  bones  to  crack  ; 
it  must  be  a  low-land  part  of  the  town  ;  I  use  to  be  a  fit  21 0 
subject  for  the  ague.  (Taking  a  drink  from  his  flask.) 
I'm  a  peace  commissioner.  Peace  be  to  my  followers. 

[Exit,  L. 

Enter  WATCHMAN,  L.,  running  in  search  of  the  Highway- 
man and  meeting  ALFRED  takes  him  for  the  man. 

Watchm.  I'll  take  my  stand  for  you. 

Enter  ALFRED,  R. 

Watchm.  What  calls  you  hither  ? 

Alf.  I'm  the  attendant  of  my  good  and  noble  master,     21 6 
von  Dietrichstein. 

Watchm.  Then  show  me  your  mark,  if  you  serve  his 
lordship,  before  I  give  the  pass. 

Alf.  Here  it  be.       [Showing  the  name-plate  on  the  sword. 

Watch.  Pass  on, — you  are  not  my  man.  280 

[Exit,  R.,  rapping  thrice  with  his  staff. 

Alf.  He's  taken  me  so  aback,  I've  most  forgotten  to 
note  the  spot  of  this  my  first  adventure.  (Looking  about.) 
Oh,  yes,  it's  opposite  Nick  Bogg's  home  for  stragglers. 
If  Michael  be  safe  through,  it  proves  the  force  of  diplo- 
macy against  arms,  ammunition,  and  belligerent  sway.  285 

[Exit,  L. 


21  THE   BETROTHED.  ACT  I. 

SCENE  III — A  magnificent  apartment,  lighted  up  with, 
festal  splendor,  in  the  mansion  of  the  Count  Mander- 
stem  ;  in  the  rear,  two  folding  doors  opening  into  another 
saloon,  with  a  table  elegantly  supplied  with  viands,  c., 
and  servants  in  waiting ;  the  centre  doors  of  the  second 
saloon,  which  are  standing  open,  gives  to  the  prospect  a 
view  of  the  hall  containing  statuary  and  other  works  of 
art.  The  whole  having  the  appearance  of  a  banquet  ad- 
vanced close  on  to  the  dawn  of  day. 

ALEXANDER  and  LEVANGELINE  discovered  on  a  couch,  R., 
engaged  in  conversation.  On  the  side  directly  opposite, 
FREDERICK,  by  himself,  apparently  lost  in  thought,  and 
taking  no  part  in  any  thing  that  is  going  on.  The 
middle  space  between  the  Proscenium,  at  some  distance 
from  the  edge  of  the  stage,  is  filled  up  by  the  COUNT, 
FRANCIS,  JOSEPHINE,  EULALIE,  and  CLARA.  A  portion 
of  the  company  are  promenading,  some  are  examining 
the  works  of  art,  and  others  seated  throughout  the  apart- 
ments. 

Count,  (c.)  'Tis  late,  'tis  late  ;  the  golden  hue  of  dawn 
Streaks  through  the  lattice  upon  our  moping  lights. 
It  is  a  lovely  scene  ;  but  good,  my  friends, 
The  sun  reproves  us  for  our  lengthened  merriment, 

290     And,  jealous  of  his  matchless  state,  will  teach 

That  pleasure  waxes  heavy  towards  the  morn ;  [  Grosses,  L. 
Then  let  what  remains,  of  this  full  late  hour, 
Be  eked  out  in  pleasures,  as  brilliant  as 
This  morn's  onsetting  dawn  can  happy  greet. 

295     We'll  think  no  more  there's  aught  of  earthly  ills, 
Where  power,  beauty,  love,  wit,  wealth,  and  wine 
Earth's  chiefest  pleasures,  supremely  reign. 
The  sprightly  bowl  once  more  shall  be  refilled, 
And  as  we  pass  it  gaily  round — drink  deep — 

300     Filling  again  and  emptying  the  same 

At  each  toast,  as  it  goes  merrily  round.  [Crosses,  R. 

I'll  first  command,  that  each  may  do  the  most 
What  most  each  likes,  which  each  that  thinks  ay 

with  me, 
Will  signify-  by  emptying  his  glass. — 


SCENE  III.  THE   BETROTHED.  25 

Resume  the  dance,  your  instruments  advance,  305 

[Crosses,  c. 

Sound  the  trumpet,  inspire  the  octave  flute, 
And  let  the  cords  to  their  own  measures  bend  : — 
Bid  ev'ry  note  of  harmony  awake, 
To  beat  down  sorrow,  and  assuage  trial. 

[A  portion  of  the  company  arrange  themselves  in  the  attitude 
of  the  Minuet;  the  Orchestra  plays  the  music  of  the 
Minuet ;  in  the  course  of  which  flashes  of  lightning  are 
seen,  and  peals  of  thunder  heard.  EULALIE  falters, 
pauses,  and  faints  in  FRANCIS'  arms;  the  Minuet  is 
broken  up  in  the  utmost  confusion.  All  exeunt,  c.,  ex- 
cept ALEXANDER  and  LEVANGELINE. 

Lev.  (  To  ALEXANDER.)  Nay,  do  not  go,  but  linger  yet 

awhile,  310 

We'll  not  be  missed  among  the  gay  throng. 

Alex.  I'll  nor  go,  nor  stay,  except  thou  will'st  it  so. 

Lev.  Then  sit,  and  I  will  teach  myself  to  thee. 
Last  night  I  dreamt  that  thou  had'st  loved  me, — 
And,  then,  alas  !  that  thou  had'st  something  proved 315 

Alex.  Love's  oft  end,  falsehood  more  or  less,  I  judge. 

Lev.  Though  it  pains  me  much,  I  can't  dissuade  the 

truth, 

That  methought  I  was  not  thy  only  love, 
But  still  resolved  to  love  thee,  till  this  heart 
As  flesh  in  dust  lies  adamantine  cold.  320 

Alex.  Nay,  I  love  thee,  and  will  never  leave  thee, 
Till  death's  dark  veil  shall  hide  me  from  thy  face, 
And  then  methinks,  my  soul  would  stay  with  thee  I 

Lev.  Wilt  swear  to  that  ? 

Alex.  Ay,  by  any  oath  you'll  frame.  325 

If  earth  can  from  its  circled  orb  be  turned, 
And  leave  the  Sun,  and  he  in  turn  the  zones, 
If  yon  clustered  stars,  that  mark  the  North, 
Can  leave  their  rightly  appointed  places, 

Dark'ning  the  very  spots  they  once  illumined,  330 

Bright  beguilers  to  the  watchful  pilot, 
If  creation's  rule  can  leave  the  world, 
That  it  by  will  ordained  hath  justly  fashioned, 

4 


26  THE   BETROTHED.  ACT  I. 

Soul,  Sun,  Earth,  Stars,  Creation's  rule  may  part, 
335     I  shall  never  from  thee,  Levangeline  ! 

My  thoughts,  and  actions  are  alone  of  thee. 
Lev,  Most  amply,  be  thy  pardon,  then  ; — 
Alex.  In  proof 

Whereof  our  lips  to  lips  thus  purge  all  doubt.     [Kissing. 
340         Lev.  It  is  fabled  of  certain  fruits,  though  touched 

By  Autumn's  searching  frosts — when  all  nature 

Seems  blossoming  with  hues  of  red  and  gold — 

Lose  nothing  of  the  tempting  color  of  their  rinds, 

That  are  all  dust  and  lothed  decay  within. 
345     Such  had  I  feared  to  be  thy  love  for  me  ; — 

And  when  we  parted,  as  e'er  since,  I  felt 

A  certain  aching  here,  for  whose  relief 

[Pointing  to  her  heart. 

Flavia*  has  long  since  prescribed  despair ; 

And  to  my  father's  tormenting  queries, 
350     "  What  ails  thee,  child  ?  look'st  never  so  before" — 

I  answered  that  which  cast  his  mind  in  greater  doubt ; 

Lest  by  revealing  my  true  feeling  sense, 

I  should  have  thine  own  disclosed. 

Now  methinks  I  should  have  been  less  open, 
355     And  feigned  to  be  less  captious. 

But  where  on  this  earth  should'st  thou  look  for  truth, 

If  on  my  tongue  thou  should'st  fail  to  find  it. 

Alex.   The  thought  I  ne'er  should  meet  thee  more,  as 
then 

Thou  wert,  a  countess  of  eighteen  summers, 
360     And  three  from  out  a  far  distant  convent, — . 

And  thy  parting  glance  had  such  an  aspect 

Of  that,  to  which  your  actions  testified, 

And  lacked  but  confirmation  from  thy  tongue, 

Conspired  to  make  me  e'er  since  to  languish 
365     Till  this  propitious  night. 

Lev.  My  own  true  sense  ! 

He-enter  FRANCIS  and  CLARA,  c.  D.  from  L. 

Let  us  retire  awhile  till  these  pass  on. 

[Exeunt  ALEXANDER  and  LEVANGELINE,  R.  s.  E. 

*  On  whose  gardens  George  Granville,  Lord  Lansdown,  Baron 
Bideford  wrote  some  verses. 


SCENE  III.  THE    BETROTHED.  27 

Fran.  How  fortunate  am  I,  who  after  having  visited 
so  many  courts  while  on  my  travels,  where  I  have  seen 
ladies  that  justly  may  be  called  beautiful,  but  since  my  370 
return  have  met  with  no  one  that  could  bring  herself  into 
comparison  with  their  faces,  till  I  met  with  one  that  not 
only  sums  up  all  the  qualities  of  loveliness  in  others,  but 
has  that  which  can  only  be  described  as  a  treasure  pecu- 
liar to  herself.  315 

Glar.  These  encomiums  from  such  a  source,  my  lord, 
have  quite  overpowered  my  senses  ;- — but  if,  there  was  a 
probability  of  my  being  ignorant  of  my  own  defects, 
so  good  natnred  a  compliment  might  of  itself  give  me 
graces  which  I  was  not  possessed  of  before.  380 

Fran.  Nay,  further — some  may  be  empowered  to  move 
the  heart  by  slow  degrees,  and  others  with  some  one 
charm  may  take  the  senses  captive,  but  you,  my  lady, 
have  that  combination  of  graces  which  attack  and  as  soon 
subdue  each  faculty  at  sight.  385 

Glar.  How  unfortunate  that  I  should  have  studied  the 
lesson  self  so  well,  that  all  the  advantage  I  can  gain  from 
your  report,  is  the  honor  I  have  in  being  in  the  com- 
pany of  one  whose  wit  can  find  something  to  praise  in 
those  so  little  praiseworthy.  390 

Fran.  Did  I  not  hear  thee  address  thyself  to  the  look- 
ing-glass an  hour  ago — that  it  was  no  wonder  that  so 
many  loved  thee  for  thou  wert  so  beautiful. 

Glar    It  was  very  wrong  to  overhear  me. 

Fran.  It  is  worse  for  thee  not  to  believe  it  from  others.       395 

Glar.  My  lord,  I  have  a  trifling  favor  to  gain  from 
thee. 

Fran.  (Kneels.)  Whatever  thou  wilt. 

Glar.  Promise  me  that  thou  wilt  excite  extreme  jealousy 
amongst  my  rivals,  Josephine  and  Eulalie.  400 

Fran.  I'll  do  my  best  to  serve  thee  in  such  an  inglori* 
ous  service. 

Glar.  Inglorious  ! 

Fran.  Pardon  me,  for  disloyalty  to  your  royalt}^  as 
thou  art  my  queen  to-night.  405 

Glar.  I  have  my  ideas  schooled  into  a  plan.  So  if  it 
please  thee,  come.  [Exeunt  FRANCIS  and  CLARA,  L.  s.  E. 


28  THE   BETBOTHED.  ACT  I. 

He-enter  FRANCIS  and  EULALIE,  c.  from  R. 

Eul.  (c.)  From  whom  took'st  thou  that  rose  ? 
Fran,  (c.)  From  thee,  dearest. 

410     'Twas  surely  wrong  to  harm  the  harmless  rose, 
For  to  harm  it  is  to  harm  the  one,  that 
Takes  from  it  so  much  to  make  her  lovely. 

Eul.  I  dread  to  think  how  deep  thou  canst  dissemble, 
And  that  too  when  thou  look'st  so  much  devout. 
415         Fran.  For  many  days  I've  been  striving  to  learn 
The  course  that  should  be  run  by  one,  that  longs 
To  gain  a  name  amongst  the  nations  ;  and 
Return  to  bask  in  earth's  every  pleasure, 
And  fly  all  but  love  and  thee. 

420         Eul.  Count  Francis, 

Thou  art  far  more  gallant  than  faithful.     'Twas 
But  a  moment  since  I  saw  thee  kneeling 
To  another,  breathing  the  like  false  vows. 

Fran.  Why  was  I  formed  so  passing  beautiful, 
425     Or  women  turned  such  fools,  that  all  must  love  me, 
Else  should  I  not  play  truant  to  so  many  hearts. 

[JOSEPHINE  and  CLARA,  who  have  been  occasionally  crossing 
the  stage,  in  the  middle  apartment,  observing  FRANCIS,  and 
EULALIE,  L.,  enter  in  the  back  ground,  and  stand  c.  JO- 
SEPHINE expresses  in  her  countenance  visible  signs  of 
surprise  and  emotion. 

Jos.  (  To  CLARA.)  Had  I  not  seen  it,  I  would  not  have 

believed  it. 
Fran.  Wilt  walk  without,  dearest  ? 

Eul.  But  the  damp  air 

430         Fran.  Will  only  prove  how  pleasure  may  outweigh  pain. 

[As  he  leads  her  off,  L.,  JOSEPHINE  comes  forward  and 
accosts  him.  EULALIE  exits,  L.  s.  E.,  and  CLARA  with- 
draws. 

Jos.  (L.)  Hear!  I  came  to  tell  thee  something,  Francis, 
'Tis  but  to  say  we  part — for  ever  part. 


SCENE  III.  THE   BETROTHED.  29 

Fran.  Not  so,  my  lady,  'twould  be  more  than  death. 

Jos.  With  thee,  love  is  to  sue,  to  gain,  deceive  ; 
And  next  to  tire  of,  to  neglect,  and  leave.  435 

Fran.  Cease,  fair  lady,  cease  those  ill-timed  wails  ; 
And  shake  those  aching  sighs  from  off  thine  eye-lids  ; 
Nor  let  a  thought  of  discord  trouble  thee  : 
But  may  new  vows  restore  the  heart  once  mine. 

CLARA  re-enters  c.  from  L.,  and  EULALIE,  L. 

Jos.  Thou  art  ever  free  to  wander  here  and  there,  449 

And  swear  thy  love  to  others  as  thou  hast  to  me. 

Eul.  And  to  me  before 

Clar.  And  again  to  me. 

[CLARA  immediately  exits  c,  to  L.,  and  EULALIE,  L.  JOSEPH- 
INE hurries  off,  R.  ,  followed  by  FRANCIS. 

Re-enter  ALEXANDER  and  LEVANQELINE,  c.  from  L. 

Lev.  Good  night,  good  night !  sweet  repose  come  o'er  thee, 
Not  as  slumber  to  my  languishing  eyes,  445 

Which  thought  of  thee  long  has  to  them  denied. 

Alex.  As  the  rose  is  not  all  flower,  but  hath  much, 
If  bound  into  a  garland,  'twould  tear  our  brows, 
So  hope  rewards  not  without  some  sorrow.  [Going. 

Lev.  Pray  linger  yet  a  moment.  450 

[Retires  to  the  couch  on  which  she  has  been  seated  during 
the  evening,  and  returns  with  a  bouquet. 

Alex.  (Aside.)  Would  I  were 

A  mote  of  dust,  to  float  along  the -air, 
As  the  thin  bright  gossamer  line,  which  yields 
Its  flitting  movements  to  the  summer's  air, 
Perchance  to  light  upon  that  unsunned  breast.  455 

Lev.  To  assure  thee  of  my  first  and  only  choice 
Take  this. 

Alex.  I  thank  thee  truly.   (Cuts  a  slit  in  the  left  bread  of 
his  coat)  and  inserts  the  bouquet  therein.)     If  aught 
Has  made  me  blest  since  first  we  met,  it  is  460 

In  what  thou  say'st  in  giving  me  these  flowers ; 
For  they  will  teach  me  how  to  think  of  bliss. 


30  THE   BETKOTHED.  ACT.  I. 

Asa  memento  of  my  faith's  vow,  take  this  ; 
"Tis  of  jewels  formed  that  I  received 
465     From  one,  who  took  them  from  an  Ethiop's  ear. 

[  Takes  a  ring  from  off  his  finger  and  offers  it  to  LEVAN- 

GELINE. 

A  ring  fashioned  as  a  serpent  coiled, 

Most  ancient  emblem  of  eternity.* 

The  diamond,  say  a  token  of  our  true 

Loves'  eternal  purity.     Take  it  then. 
470     There  are  no  nobler  heav'n-born  ornaments, 

Than  the  ideas  of  beauty  it  calls  up, 

And  just  qualities  of  love  it  emblems. 

Lev.  Why  how  beautiful !     How  cam'st  thou  by  it  ? 

Some  teach  that  diamonds  are  of  all  things  purest, 
475     Their  strength  exceeds  all  others  save  their  own, 

But  their  embodied  light  by  fire  consuming, 

Renders  to  earth  nought  but  an  empty  vapor  ; 

Such  may  never  be  our  loves'  purity. 

Alex.  Jewels  are  not  of  all  things  in  my  sight, 
480    As  to  the  world's  enslaved,  most  precious. 

*  The  form  of  the  serpent  coiled  into  a  circle  with  its  tail  in  its 
mouth  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  and  most  significant  symbols 
devised  by  the  intelligence  of  man  ;  even  vying  with  the  cross  in 
antiquity.  Nor  was  its  use  confined  to  any  one  people,  but  it 
has  been  employed  by  nations,  as  well  as  painters,  sculptors,  and 
poets.  In  Skandinaviaii  Mythology  we  are  told  that  Loki's 
offspring  by  Angurbodi,  a  giantess  of  Jotunheim,  were  called  the 
Wolf  Fenrir,  the  Midgard  Serpent,  and  Hela,  or  Death.  When 
the  offspring  of  Loki  were  born,  Odin  sent  for  them,  and  after 
having  put  the  Wolf  Fenrir  in  fetters,  threw  the  Midgard  Serpent 
into  the  ocean  that  encompassed  the  earth, — here  the  monster 
grew  to  such  an  enormity  that  he  encircled  the  entire  earth,  with 
his  tail  in  his  mouth. 

The  Egyptians  used  it  as  an  emblem  of  the  heavens,  and  its 
scales  and  variegated  spots  denoted  the  stars,  and  was  sometimes 
used  by  them  as  a  hieroglyphic  of  the  universe  itself.  The  tail  in 
the  mouth  was  expressive  of  the  fact  that  Time  destroys  his  own 
productions,  and  from  this  arose  its  association  with  the  Scythe 
in  the  representations  of  Saturn,  for  a  symbol  of  Time  and  the 
revolutions  of  the  year.  It  was  also  used  to  denote  the  continuity 
or  perpetuity  of  the  heavenly  motions,  and  through  all  time,  and 
in  all  places  in  the  Eastern  Countries,  it  was  and  still  remains  the 
emblem  of  Eternity. 


SCENE  III. 


THE    BETROTHED. 


'Tis  in  the  ends  to  which  they  may  be  turned 

Their  value  lies,  as  is  ambition's  strife 

To  good  ends  turned.     Once  more  adieu  !  [Going. 

Lev.  Adieu  1 

Remember  what  you  said  about  the  flowers. 

[Exeunt  ALEXANDER,  c.  to  L.,  and  LEVANGELINE,  c.  to  R. 


31 


485 


END    OF    ACT    I. 


32  THE   BETROTHED.  ACT  II. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — A  Drawing  Room  in  the  House  of  the  BARON 
DIETRICHSTEIN,    as    before.      FREDERICK   discovered 
R.  c. 

Enter  ALFRED,  c.  D.  from  R. 


ALFRED,  R.  c. 

^E  waits  below,  that  says  your  lord- 
ehip  is  expecting,  but  refused  me  his 
name  as  though  I  could  not  bear  it 
in  my  memory  this  distance. 
Fred.  Describe  his  person. 
Alf.  By  his   appearance    I'd   judge 
him  to  be  a  candidate  for  philosophy's  doctorship. 

Fred.  It's  none  other  than  Nicholas  the  Count  Roussac, 
lately  returned  from  his  studies  at  Jena,  the  pride  of  the 
10  scholastics,  and  the  victor  of  more  fair  hearts  in  this 
last  week,  than  his  years  amount  to.  Admit  him, — and 
further  if  the  Baron  Wied  should  call,  have  him  shown 
here.  [  Exit  ALFRED,  c.  D.  off  L. 

Enter  FRANCIS,  c.  D.  from  R. 

How  late  you  are — I  had  provided  supper  at  the  hour  of 
15     our  engagement  the  last  night. 

Fran.  I  returned  too  late  from  the  play,  where  I  had 
been  induced  to  go  by  meeting  a  friend  who  was  hither 
bound,  and  would  have  me  join  him  to  converse  before 
the  piece  commenced. 
20         Fred.  Pray  who  was  there  ? 

Fran.  Opposite  me  were  seated  the  Baron  Wied  and 
Countess  Manderstem. 

Fred.  Ah  me  !  there's  truly  love  where  I  had  wished 
to  find  but  friendship. 
25        Fran.  Why  it  would  be  easier  to  weigh  the  earth  by 


SCENE  I.  THE   BETROTHED.  33 

a    new   invented   formula,    than    to    determine  the   line 
'twixt  friendship  and  love  between  man  and  woman. 

Fred.  Which  of  thy  dark  lettered  tomes  has  taught  thee 
this  ? 

Fran.  My  midnight   reveries,  based    on  my  own    ex-*     30 
perience. 

Fred.  It  is  quite  the  hour  he  should  be  here. 

Fran.  I'll  be  glad  to  meet  him  once  again,  before  I 
must  be  back  to  Jena,  to  await  promotion-clay. 

Fred.  I  think  I  heard  his  voice  without  this  moment.        35 

Enter  ALEXANDER,  c<  D. 

How  do  you  ? 

Alex.  Quite  well. 

Fran.  One's  self  must  least  be  acquainted,  then,  with 
his  own  condition. 

Alex.  How  so  ?  40 

Fran.  Well,  allow  me  to  prescribe  for  you. 

Alex.  First  assure  me  that  you  know  my  case. 

Fran.  I'll  take  you  there, — your  heart  is  the  cause 
of  your  distemper ; — I'm  glad  to  be  leaving  the  town  so 
soon,  for  it's  not  yet  proved  if  love  be  not  contagious.  45 

Alex.  Well,  since  you  have  so  well  merited  a  hearing 
in  my  case,  let  us  have  it. 

Fran.  Love  is  but  another  name  for  the  queen  of 
charming  cares,  and  while  the  cherished  draught  is 
in  your  breast,  believe  it  will  ferment,  then  madden,  50 
and  after  strengthen, — diseased  with  jealousy,  harassed 
by  absence,  distrust,  and  ever-anxious  joys,  life's  powers 
are  softened,  and  you  lay  dissolved  in  languor.  Get  you 
to  bed  this  night,  and  dream  of  a  child  upon  a  gravelly 
bank,  throwing  pebbles  into  the  stream,  which  first  forms  55 
a  little  indentation  of  its  own  size,  and  then  circle  after 
circle,  yielding  to  another  larger  in  turn,  until  growing 
wider  and  wider,  at  last  is  lost  in  distant  view,  while  the 
power  and  instrument  that  formed  it  remain  unseen.  This 
is  the  dream  of  fame.  60 

Fred.  (  To  ALEXANDER.)  Does  this  case  apply  to  you  ? 

Alex.  Too  well  so,  and  too  far  afflicted  to  prove  the 
antidote.  Let  us  change  the  subject.  There  is  news 

5 


34:  THE  BETROTHED.  ACT.  II. 

65  afloat ;  you  told  me  of  the  unexpected  return  of  the  Count 
Tertsky  from  the  embassy  at  Constantinople,  and  that  he 
comes,  too,  by  the  mandate  of  the  Count  Manderstein. 
( To  FRANCIS.)  Have  you  heard  of  it  ? 

Fran.  I  have  heard, — (FREDERICK  motions  to  FRANCIS  in 
TO     dumb  show  to  keep  silence,)  some  vague  idea  of  his  return 
at  a  distant  day. 

Alex.  What  can  be  the  nature  of  his  negotiation  with 
the  Count  Manderstem  ? 

Fred.   (As  if  endeavoring  to  change  his  thoughts.)    Ex- 
?5     cuse  my  interruption, — but  the  day  has  hung  very  heav}^ 
with  me,  and  I  propose  that  we  have  some  thing  to  try 
our  throats. 

Fran.  I  concede  to  that. 

[Exeunt  ALEXANDER,  FREDERICK,  and  FRANCIS. 


SCENE  II. — T7ie  balcony  of  COUNT  MANDERSTEM'S  Man- 
sion, with  a  view  of  the  garden.  Time — sunset,  with  the 
Moon  in  the  heavens. 

ALEXANDER  and  LEVANGELINE  enter  from  the  house,  L. 

Lev.  (Entering.)  What  have  you  been  doing  since  noon  ? 
80        Alex.  I've  been  engaged  in  busy  idleness, — in  thinking 
of  you,  and  how  I  could  have  spent  three  weeks  out  of 
your  sight. 

Lev.  But  you  have  learned,  no  doubt,  ere  this,  that 
absence  strengthens  love. 

85  Alex.  It  would  ne'er  strengthen  mine.  I  see  you  and 
leave  you  each  time  we  meet,  as  a  play-worn  child,  which 
longs  for  its  night  of  rest,  only  to  languish  for  its  next 
day's  play  in  turn.  Dost  thou  still  love  me,  Levangeline  ? 

Lev.  Do  I  still  love  you  I 

90  Alex.  It  is  surely  wrong  to  question  thee  thus,  Levan- 
geline. But  I  fear  lest  thy  love  may  prove  flickering  or 
transient  as  the  bow  in  the  cloud,  which  while  we  admire 
is  lost  in  vanishment. 

Lev.  It  is  unjust  to  question  me  in  this  wise.     The 
95     only  wise  thing  I  ever  did  was  to  love  thee,  nor  would  I 
have  another  as  wise. 


SCENE  II.  THE   BETKOTHED.  35 

Alex.   (After  a  pause.)  I  must  be  gone,  Levangeline. 

Lev.  That  is  not  just,  nor  kind.  Thou  should'st  be  with 
none  other  but  me.  It  was  but  yesterday,  thou  said'st 
thou  would'st  be  with  none  but  me.  100 

Alex.  Was  I  not  with  thee  all  this  morn  ? 

Lev.  Thou  truly  wert :  but  then 

Alex.  But  what  ? 

Lev.  Often  and  often,  when  I  looked  on  thee,  thou 
wast  not  thinking  of  me.  .  105 

Alex.  (Looking  fondly  on  her.)  Levangeline! 

Lev.  I  know  that  thou  lovest  me  ;  and  for  that  reason 
alone,  I  cannot  bear  to  think,  speak,  or  look  on  any  one 
but  thee. 

Alex   I  was  thinking  of  a  dream.  110 

Lev.  Pray,  what  was  the  subject  ? 

Alex.  Love,  to  be  sure. 

Lev.  Then  tell  me  of  it ;  for  if  it  be  something  about 
love,  it  can't  be  wrong. 

Alex.  The  details,  I  have  quite  forgot.  115 

Lev.  Reflect  a  moment ! 

Alex.  I  can't  recall  it. 

Lev.  I  don't  like  this  ;   Thou  art  not  in  earnest, 

Alex.  Well,  then,  the  story  is  quickly  told.  There 
once  existed  two  lovers.  120 

Lev.  Once  !  indeed,  how  strange  ! — Pray,  proceed. 

Alex.  Their  name  and  place,  it  is  best  for  the  present 
purpose,  to  say — that,  I  forget. 

Lev.   Say,  then,  it  was  ourselves. 

Alex.  That's  so  personal.  125 

Lev.   Grant  it. 

Alex.  The  lady  was,  as  you  would  surely  grant,  most 
beautiful,  and  he  the  same.  They  used  to  meet,  speak, 
write,  sing,  walk,  sail  upon  the  waters,  care  for  and  look 
on  nothing  on  earth  besides  themselves.  130 

Lev.  Just  as  all  the  like  would  do.  Quite  natural — so 
far — pray  go  on. 

Alex.  I  dare  not  love. 

Lev.  Well,  then,  I  will  not  tire  you  longer  with  entreaty. 

[  Walks  aside. 

Alex.  Come  hither,  Levangeline,  the  evening  air  is  sweet.       135 

l<ev.  Yes,  how  conducive  is  this  time  for  love, 


36  THE   BETKOTHED.  ACT  II. 

sun  falls  golden  on  the  dark  moor  hill,  and  the  moon,  now 
rising  slow,  beams  on  the  pebble-margined  lake,  each 
seeming  envious  of  its  proffered  light.  When  all  things 
140  seem  so  bright  and  lovely  for  our  sakes,  is  it  not  wrong 
for  us  not  to  be  happy  ! 

Alex.  Would  it  were  ever  so  ! 

Lev.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Alex.  I  cannot  tell. 
145  Lev.  I  have  no  secrets  from  thee. 

Alex.  I  would  the  reason  was  unknown  to  me. 

Lev.  Why  is   every  thing   you   say,  this   evening,  so 
buried  in  mystery  ? 

Alex.  To  be  then  as  candid,  as  I  have  been  seemingly 

150       dark,  Levangeline  !  the  day  may  be  close  at  hand,  when 

you   shall  find  a  rightful  lover,  in  one  whom  you  have 

spoken  of  as  a  friend.     In  that  is  summed  the  dream, 

Levangeline. 

Lev.  Again,  you  throw  these  barriers  between  me  and 
155      your  love. 

Alex.  It  was  but  a  moment  since  you  would  know  all. 

Lev.  Well,  so  I  did,  for  nothing  comes  to  us  too  soon 
but  ill  news, — and  I  was  not  thinking  of  that.    The  even- 
ing breeze  chills  me. 
160          Alex.  Will  you  have  a  mantle  ?  [Going  off,  R. 

Lev,  Yes — oh,  no,  I'm  warm  now. 

Alex.  Levangeline  !  it  could  not  have  been  the  even- 
ing air. 

Lev.   Feel  my  heart   now.-~-Alexander !    for   the   last 

165     three  weeks  my  life  has  been  one  long  loving  thought  of 

thee-^-for  I  could  say  that  I  have  loved  and  that  is  all. 

And  when  I  was  away  from  thee  the  world  seemed  gone 

with  thee.     Though  I   have  suffered  much  by   absence, 

and   distrust,    yet    I  would    not   exchange   my    sorrows 

170     for    twice   the    happiness    of  others,  for    they  were   the 

woes  that  I  endured  to  conquer  gloom,  and  my  present 

wretchedness,  from  anxious  cares,  grows  dear  to  me,  since 

it  is  suffering  for  one  I  love. 

Alex.  Then  forget  all  you  have  heard. 
115         Lev.   I  must  know  more  before  I  can  grant  that. 

Alex,  I  will  feed  thy  ears  to  satiety,  if  I  have  but  thy 


SCENE  II.  THE   BETROTHED.  37 

prayers  in  expiation,  for  the  pain  I  would  occasion  thee 
in  listening  to  my  tale. 

Lev.  Let  me  hear  the  rest,  for  I  was  born  to  gratify 
myself,  so  that  I  only  wronged  no  one  else.  180 

Alex.  The  one  in  whom  you  have  reason  to  find  a  lover, 
is  the  Count  Tertsky,  who  by  the  request  of  your  god- 
father is  on  his  return  from  the  embassy  at  Constantinople 
this  very  hour. 

Lev.  Where,  and  from  whom,  have  you  learned  this  ?         185 

Alex.  From  those  who  are  in  your  father's  secret  coun- 
sel ;  and  though  I  had  it  in  the  first  instance  as  an 
insinuation,  yet  hourly  musings  has  strengthened  it  into 
a  fact. 

Lev.  But  surety  you  are  not  jealous  of  Nicholas.    You     190 
know  when  I  was  very  young,  he  was  the  only  one  that  I 
often  met,  and  sought  to  please  me ;  to  humor  me  in  every 
little  fancy ;  and  thus  we  often  spent  hours  together,  and 
really  in  our  childish  hearts  fancied  ourselves  as  lovers. 
Afterwards  in  my  ignorance,  and   perhaps  his  own  too,     195 
we  thought  indeed  we  loved,  and  it  may  have  been  rightly 
too ;  for  our  feelings  were  different  from  what  the  world 
calls  friendship,  and  not  of  the  same  nature  that  exists 
between  sister  and  brother ; — years   have  gone  by  since 
last  we  parted,  and  with  them  my  sensations,  and  I  trust     200 
his  own. 

Alex.  You  sadly  wrong  me, — how  could  you,  Levange- 
line,  thus  brand  me  with  jealousy — he  is  as  dear  to  me  as 
myself.  [  Walks  aside,  and  looks  into  the  sky. 

Lev.   (Humorously.)    Are  you  an   astrologer  that  you     205 
are  looking  on  the  stars  to  decide  our  fate  ? 

Alex.  Pardon  me,  Levangeline.  I  was  gazing  there, 
as  on  an  empty  space, — I  have  no  thoughts  that  are  not 
of  you. 

Lev.  I  am  called, — I  will  be  with  you  again,  Alexander.     210 

Alex,  I  cannot  linger,  dearest. 

Lev.  You  would  not  leave  me  thus  ? 

Alex,  When  would  you  have  me  with  you  again  ? 

Lev.    (Takes  a  flower  from   her   bouquet.)      See   this 
flower, — it  was  a  favorite  with  my  father,  and  when  he     215 
died,  my  mother  planted  others  like  it  on  his  grave.     It 
is  a  curious  one  too,  which  philosophy  has  named  Mi- 


38  THE   BETKOTHED.  ACT  II. 

mosa ;  but  most  do  vulgarly  call  the  sensitive  plant, 

beautifully  associated  by  name   to  the  idea  it  emblems. 
220     Tender,  timorous,  and  pale,  it  contracts  and  even  closes 
beneath  the  touch ;  and  if  rudely  handled  dies  at  once. 
Take  it,  Alexander, — and  when  it  next  sleeps,  come  to  me. 
Alex.  It  contracts  already  beneath  my  touch. 
Lev.  I  knew  it  would  ere  I  gave  it  thee. 

225         Alex.  It  has  a  blest  meaning,  interpreted — you  would 
have  me  never  from  you. 
Lev    Yes  ! 

Alex.     I  promise  then,  to  be  enslaved  to  thee,  the  four 
faces  of  the  dial  around.     Farewell !  [Exit,  L. 

230         Lev,  Adieu !  [Exit  by  the  balcony. 

SCENE  III.— .4  Street. 
Enter  MICHAEL,  L. 

Mich.  (L.)  Alas  and  alack-a-day  that  brought  my 
master  from  the  legation  at  Paris, — for  here  I  am  clung 
to  his  lordship  as  a  trail  to  a  falling  star, — whichever  way 
his  fancy  turns,  I  must  be  shifted, — for,  like  every  one 
235  in  love's  service,  his  thoughts  begin  with  the  cock's  crow- 
ing, and  never  cease  till  the  cooing  of  the  nightingale, 
and  his  task, — and  my  service  much  the  same.  I  am  to 
prepare  for  a  serenade  to  his  lady  this  night — that  is  I 
am  to  make  the  arrangements,  and  then  to  see  that  they 
540  are  carried  out — therefore  I  must  be  looking  after  the 
musicians.  (Takes  a  card  from  his  pocket.)  The  house 
must  be  near  by,  from  the  direction  on  the  card.  (Music 
heard  in  one  of  the  houses  off,  R.)  There  it  is.  (  Walks  up  to 
the  door,  n.,and  knocks.  Music  ceases,  and  five  Musicians, 
245  with  an  attendant  enter  from  the  house.) 

Mus.  (c.)  Here  we  are — your  will. 

Mich.  (To  1st  Mus.)  Pray,  my  good  friend,  art  thou 
akin  to  the  musician  of  the  Grand  Opera  at  Paris,  that 
charged  each  flourish  of  his  trumpet,  for  signalizing  the 
250  entrance  of  the  army,  as  a  solo  ? 

1st  Mus.   Nay,  my  good  sir. 

Mich.   (  To  2d  Mm.)  What  is  your  instrument  ? 

%d  Mus.  Mine  is  the  clarionet,  sir. 


SCENE  III.  THE   BETROTHED.  39 

Mich.   I  like  that  the  most  for  my  purpose, — for  it  car- 
ries the  air  so  well.     What  other  instruments  have  we  to     255 
fill  a  quintette  ? 

3d  Mm.  Mine  is  the  violin, — one  that  I  would  not 
exchange  for  a  bank. 

Mich.  (Humorously.)  That  is  not  for  a  broken  one. 

4th  and  5th  Mus.  We  play  the  violin.  260 

1st  Mus.  I  perform  the  part  of  the  violoncello. 

Mich.   (To  Attendant.)  What  is  your  part  ? 

Attend.  My  part,  or  let  me  rather  say  duty,  is  to  carry 
the  lug-gage  all  the  week,  and  like  all  others  that  have  but 
one  shirt,  to  lay  a  bed  all  Saturday.  265 

Mich.  You  must  have  learnt  of  old, — it  is  no  crime  to 
be  poor. 

Attend.  No, — no,  your  honor,  else  I  would  have  been 
born  in  a  prison.  [All  laugh. 

Mich.  But  you  could  change  your  calling.  270 

Attend.  Pray  tell  me  how  ? 

Mich.   Simply  by  learning  another  trade. 

Attend.  It  is  very  hard  to  learn  old  dogs  new  tricks. 

Mich.  Well,  now,  to  the  object  of  my  errand.  I  am 
here  to  arrange  for  a  serenade  this  night.  215 

1st  Mus.   To  whom  ? 

Mich.  To  the  Countess  Manderstem. 

1st  Mus.  Is  she  as  handsome  as  it  is  said  ? 

Mich.  I  think  I  might  join  in  common  report,  and  call 
her  passing  fair,  though  I  have  never  seen  her  ladyship,  280 

1st  Mus..  You'll  not  be  compromised  by  that  opinion. 

Mich.  What  sum  do  you  name  as  the  terms  of  our 
engagement  ? 

1st  Mus.  A  sum  of  florins  counted  to  the  twentieth; 

Mich.  Agreed.  285 

Enter  ALFRED,  unobserved,  L< 

Alf.  (Approaching.)  But  there  is  one  part  of  the  bttr* 
gain  you  have  not  touched  on. 

Mich.   (Anxiously.)  What  is  that  ? 

Alf.  The  price  for  leaving  off.  ( Takes  MICHAEL  aside, 
and  speaks  to  him  apart.)  The  Count  is  ill  of  a  distemper,       290 
and  your  master  bade  me  tell  you  to  put  off  the  serenade. 


40  THE   BETKOTHED.  ACT  II. 

Mich.  (Aloud.)  Do  you  hear  that — your  services  for 
this  night  are  hereby  dispensed  With. 

Attend.  I'm  glad  of  that,  for  I  had  already  felt  as  the 
295    circus  rider  in  facing  the  balloon. 
Alf.  That  was  ? 

Attend.  He  wished  he  was  well  through  it. 
Mich.  Well,  then,  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  advise  you 
better,  than,  for  each  to  return  by  the  Way  he  came,  and 
300    keep  himself  in  readiness  for  my  next  orders. 
1st  Mus.  Let  us  know  your  orders  in  time. 

[Musicians  exeunt  by  the  house. 
Alf.  (To  MICHAEL.)  Let's  follow  into  the  house. 
Mich.  You  will  oblige  them  better,  by  keeping  out  of  it. 
[Exeunt  ALFRED  and  MICHAEL,  by  the  house. 

SCENE  IV. — An  ante-chamber  in  the  mansion  of  the  COUNT 
MANDERSTEM  ;  table  supplied  with  medicine  and  a  crystal 
cup,  L.  c. 

COUNT  MANDERSTEM  discovered  seated  before  a  table,  c., 
resting  his  head  on  a  pillow.  Servant  in  waiting. 

Count.  (Raising  his  head.)  Ugh  !  ugh  ! 
305         Serv.  (L.  c.)  Will  your  lordship  have  anything  ? 
Count.  Is — is,  Levangeline  in  the  house  ? 
Serv.  I  think  I  heard  her  voice  without,  the  moment 
that  your  lordship  wakened, 

Count.  Tell  her  I  would  see  her.       \JZ&it  Servant,  L. 

Enter  LEVANGELINE,  L.  ,  followed  by  the  Servant. 

310         Count.   (To  Servant.)    You  may  retire  to  await  com- 
mands. [Exit  Servant,  L. 
Lev.  Were  you  wanting  anything,  father  ? 
Count.    No, — I   have   been   dosing   till   this   moment. 
What  is  the  hour  ? 
315         Lev.  Near  eight. 

Count.  (Aside.)  And  he  is  not  yet  come  to  claim  her  ! — 
(aloud.)  I  feel  chilly  about  my  shoulders, — I  thought  I 
heard  the  cracking  of  the  wood  on  the  hearth,  but  I  don't 
feel  the  heat, — cover  my  shoulders. 


SCENE  III.  THE   BETKOTHED.  41 

Lev.  (Aside.)  He  is  flighty.   (Aloud.)  It  is  spring  time,       320 
close  on  to  Easter. 

Count.  I  must  have  been  dreaming  then.  My  child  !  I 
must  have  a  word  with  you.  Strengthen  me  with  my 
tonic. 

Lev.   (Handing  a  glass.)    Drink  this,  and  let  me  know       325 
if  it  be  strong  enough. 

Count.  Ay,  it  could  not  be  improved.  Come  be  seated 
near  me.  (Seats  herself,  L.)  This  is  what  I  would  tell 
you.  Your  father  was  a  younger  branch  of  a  most  noble 
family,  whose  deeds  of  moment  that  shed  lustre  on  their  330 
lives,  and  brought  credit  to  their  country's  name,  have 
long  been  annalled  amongst  the  "worthy  of  our  race ; — 
your  mother,  I  see  her,  as  I  often  have,  most  beautifully 
by  nature  pencilled  in  thy  own  countenance,  could  boast 
of  descent  from  ancestral  names  that  held  places  in  this  335 
world's  history  quite  as  meritorious, — whose  lives  are 
likewise  written  in  their  country's  chronicles.  You  were 
their  only  child,  and  were  bred  in  all  the  care  their 
enviable  and  most  happy  lot  could  fully  offer ;  you  were 
just  of  the  age  that  increasing  interest  first  sets  strongly  340 
on,  and  marks  her  own,  wrheii  it  was  your  misfortune  to 
lose  your  father,  in  whom  I  myself  was  so  severely  bereft 
of  a  friend,  and  brother, — I  say  first  a  friend,  for  there 
may  be  a  friend  still  dearer  than  a  brother,  but  he  was 
both.  To  proceed,— ^-his  loss  was  so  severely  felt  by  your  345 
dear  mother,  that  she  remained  for  a  long  time  inconsolable, 
and  though  never  returning  to  her  former  gaiety,  that  had 
made  her  the  peculiar  charm  to  the  court  and  circle  she 
had  ever  moved  in, — yet,  as  was  thought  by  all  around, 
her  Ladyship  had  quite  withstood  her  life's  most  sore  trial,  350 
when  suddenly  she  drooped,  and  died, — -just  distancing 
her  lamented  Lordship's  fate  by  eighteen  months.  (Pauses. ) 
That  pain  again.  I  have  past  through  in  rapid  succession 
two  paroxysms,  the  bane  of  this  disordered  state,  as  you 
have  witnessed,- — but  soon  in  turn  my  third  may  come  355 
upon  me,  and  as  these  are  of  such  a  nature  when  thus 
ushered  on  by  such  small  intervals  of  time,  the  fevers 
become  more  obstinate,  and  life  more  doubtful, — a  feeling 
pervades  me  as  though  the  next  would  be  my  last. 

Lev.  Nay,  nay,  my  father  !  give  not  thought  to  such       360 

6 


42  THE   BETROTHED.  ACT  II. 

devouring  fancies, — think  of  me  !  You  have  been  all  to 
me  I  could  desire, — in  you  I  have  had  a  father, — a  pro- 
tector,— what  would  I  have  been  without  }rou  ? 

Count.    Levangeline !    you   are,    as   ever,    my   inmost 
365    thought. 

Enter  SERVANT,  L. 

Serv.  A  letter  for  your  lordship,  and  an  answer  if  it  be 
your  pleasure. 

Count.    (Handing  the  letter  to  LEVANGELINE.)     What 
are  the  contents  ? 

370  Lev.  (Breaks  the  seal,  and  reads.)  "  In  accordance  with 
your  Lordship's  instructions,  and  expressed  desire,  as  con- 
tained in  your  favor  last  received,  I  have  the  honor  to 
inform  you,  that  I  have  lost  no  time  in  making  the  neces- 
sary arrangements  for  my  return ;  although  the  legation 
is  at  this  time  much  occupied  by  questions  and  delibera- 
tions of  moment.  I  would  further  state,  that,  I  am  here 
in  town,  to  wait  upon  you  at  any  moment  your  Lordship 
may  be  pleased  to  command  me.  In  haste,  but  most 
sincerely  and  obediently,  DE  TERTSKY." 

\_0n  perceiving  the  signature  she  exhibits  signs  of  the 
deepest  emotions,  unobserved  by  the  COUNT.  JOSEPHINE 
has  entered  during  the  reading  of  the  communication. 

380  Count.  I  would  have  you  follow  my  dictation — hastily 
make  my  due  acknowledgments, — and  further  state  it 
to  be  my  pleasure  to  receive  his  Lordship  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment. 

[LEVANGELINE  motions  in   dumb   show  with   JOSEPHINE, 
who  writes,  seals  the  note,  and  with  it  follows  her  in  con- 
versation to  the  door. 
Count.  Command  the  presence  of  a  servant. 

[LEVANGELINE  rings  the  bell. 

Enter  SERVANT,  L. 

385         Serv.  Your  Lorship's  commands  ? 

Count.  Immediately  go  and  inform  Frederick  to  come, — 


SCENE  HI.  THE  BETKOTHED.  43 

say  to  Alexander,  Tm  dying,  leave  word  with  Francis,  in 
case  he  should  have  remained  in  town  till  this  hour,  to 
come  and  be  with  me  in  my  last  moments. 

\_Exit  SERVANT,  L. 

Enter  ALEXANDER  and  NICHOLAS,  c.  D. 

[ALEXANDER  and  NICHOLAS  take  the  hand  of  the  COUNT, 
and  gaze  upon  LEVANGELINE  with  a  look  of  hesitation  as 
whether  to  speak,  when  she  starts  up  from  her  knees,  on 
which  she  has  remained  in  a  state  of  mental  stupefaction, 
and  collecting  herself  converses  with  NICHOLAS  apart  for 
a  moment. 

Count.  Most  too  late,  (TJiey  seat  themselves,  L.)  closer,       390 
closer,  while  I  speak  of  what  I  have  brought  you  from  a 
distance,  and  what  concerns  each  of  you.     Levangeline, 
I've  already  told  you  of  your  father  and  mother,  when  I 
paused  from  weakness,- — in  your  mother's  last  moments 
she  sent  for  me,  as  I  have  for  you,  and  impressed  upon       395 
me  a  duty  to  fulfill, — the  last  that  remains  unperformed 
of  your  father's  testimony.     It  is  this,- — as  a  mark  of  his 
friendship  for  the  Count  Tert sky's  regards  for  his  only 
child,  Levangeline,  and  in  deference  to  what  he  looked 
upon  as  a  mutual  tenderness  on  their  part  from  childhood,       400 
he  thereby  offered  him  her  hand  whenever  his  lordship 
should   desire   to  ask   it.     He,  a  dying  man,  made  this 

request  of  me,  and  I  have  called  you  from  afar  to 

that  pain  again  ! 

Count.  Allow   me   to   recover    strength   for  my   next       405 
encounter.  [LEVANGELINE  arranges  his  pillow. 

Enter  FREDERICK  and  FRANCIS,  c.  D. 

Fran.  (L.  c.)  Your  servant  instructed  us  to  be  with 
your  Lordship  immediately,  as  we  were  passing  the  man- 
sion. 

Count   And  so  I  did,  for  I  thought  that  I  was  dying,       410 
and  would  have  had  you  with  me.    But  I  am  happy  again 
in  my  strength.     You,  too,  are  happy,  Francis  : — you  arc 
entering  life  amid  friends  beloved,  and  academic  laurels. 


44 


415 


420 


THE  BETROTHED, 


ACT  IL 


And  Frederick,  you  remember  how  I  have  counselled 
with  you  !  Levangeline  !  where  are  your  hands  that  have 
so  often  pressed  my  forehead  ?  You  have  not  left  me  ! 
Levangeline  ! 

Lev.  What  is  your  pleasure,  father  ? 

Count.  (After  some  exertion.)  Come  nearer,  and  give 
me  your  hand  ; — and  Nicholas,  yours.  (  To  LEVANGELINE.) 
Receive  this,  as  one  whom  your  father  deemed  fit  to  be 
your  husband,  and  his  son.  This  day  be  happy  both,  and 
may  to-morrow's  Sun,  shine  down  to  grace  your  nuptials. 
[LEVANGELINE  sinks  into  ALEXANDER'S  arms*.  FREDERICK 

rests  the  COUNT'S  head.     NICHOLAS  rests  his  head  on  his 

hand. 


END    OF   ACT   II. 


SCENE  L 


THE  BETROTHED, 


ACT  III 

SCENE  I.- — A  drawing  room  in  the  mansion  of  the  COUNT 
MANDERSTEM  ;  a  transparent  door,  G. 

Enter  LEVANGELINE,  L. 


LEVANGELTNE.    (L.  c.) 

I'M  all  estranged  since  yesternoon.  So 
many  strange  goings  on  have  happened 
since  then,  that  I  believe  all  things 
possible  'twixt  now  and  the  morrow. 
Something  of  earthly  bliss  have  I  en-  5 
joyed,  but  now  it  seems  to  me,  the  Sun 

is    setting    on    my    fate ;    and    what's    to    follow    I'm 

ignorant  of, 

Enter  ALEXANDER. 

Alex.   (Entering  from -L.)  Levangeline  ! 

Lev.  Alexander  1  (Aside.)  Hope  has  not  proved  deceit-       10 
ful ;--—  (Aloud*)  yet,  there's  a  melancholy  thought  that  is 
striving  to  shun  the  light,  which  I  see  lurking  beneath 
that  sadness  in  thy  countenance. 

Alex.  (Aside.)  It  has  been  the  midnight's  study  with 
me  to  determine  how  I  can  speak  the  last  farewell,— to       15 
tell  her,  we  must  part.     I  could  one  death  endure,  but 
how  the  death  that  is  comprised  in  that  one  word  depart  ;— 
death  is  but  the  temporary  separation  of  the  soul  and 
body,  but  this  parting  is  more  than  that, — it  is  the  death 
of  love,  the  ultimate  separation  of  one's  soul's  far  better       20 
part ! 

Lev.  jCome,  be  seated.  (  They  seat  themselves,  R.)  What 
has  detained  you  till  this  hour  ? 

Alex.  I  cannot  tell. 

Lev.  You  are  then  possessed  of  a  mystery,  and  are  for-       25 
bidden  by  the  dictates  of  your  conscience  to  unfold  it. 


46  THE  BETROTHED,  ACT  III. 

Alex.  Levangeline !  no  woman  can  truly  love  the  man 
that  she  suspects. 

Lev.  It  was  not  thus  you  talked,  when  we  parted  last 

30  in  the  garden.  At  the  midnight  of  that  day  I  blessed 
thee  on  my  knees,  for  I  looked  on  thee  and  sincerely  be- 
lieved thee  my  friend  and  lover.  Oh  !  the  wages  of  folly 
that  fall  on  me  now, — a  blindfold  and  credulous  mistaken 
soul !  Should  not  thy  voice  falter  to  express  thy  thoughts, 

35  and  thy  very  countenance  blush  when  thou  recallest  how 
you  gently  tied  me  within  thy  arms,  and  with  a  fond  en- 
dearment, and  gentle  touch,  that  made  all  nature  smile 
upon  our  love,  as  when  first  thou  fixedst  upon  my  finger, — 
This  cherished  memento  of  thy  faith's  vow  : 

40       "  A  ring  fashioned  as  a  serpent  coiled, 
Most  ancient  emblem  of  eternity. 
The  diamond,  say  a  token  of  our  true 
Love's  eternal  purity  ;" — which  I  have 
Sworn,  that  I  will  grasp  ev'n  in  my  death's  pang  ! 

45  Alex.  Levangeline  !  I  well  knew  that  I  was  dear  to  thee, 

I  saw  it  in  the  first  animated  glance  that  you  cast  upon 
me, — those  flowers  you  gave  me  as  an  assurance  of  your 
first  and  only  love  I  kept  a  vigil  eye  upon  for  half  this 
day,  and  though  fast  fading  do  yet  remain  to  witness  thy 

60       own  love  and  pledge  of  faith. 
Lev.  Pray  proceed, 

Alex.  This  very  morn  I  woke  from  a  dream  with  the 
words  of  Ossian  on  my  mind.  Have  you  ever  read  that 
author  ? 

65  Lev.  Not  since  I  left  the  convent,  and  my  recollection 

of  his  writings  has  grown  very  faint. 

Alex.  I  will  then  remind  you  of  the  passage,- — it  occurs 
in  the  description  where  Ossian  deplores  the  loss  of 
Malvina.  It  is  this  : — -"Bend  thy  blue  course,  0  stream  1 

60  round  the  narrow  plain  of  Lutha.*  Let  the  green  woods 
hang  over  it,  from  their  hills  :  the  sun  look  on  it  at  noon. 
The  thistle  is  there  on  its  rock,  and  shakes  its  beard  to 
the  wind.  The  flower  hangs  its  heavy  head,  waving,  at 
times,  to  the  gale.  '  Why  dost  thou  awake  me,  t)  gale  ?' 

65  it  seems  to  say.  '  I  am  covered  with  the  drops  of  heaven  ! 
The  time  of  my  fading  is  near,  the  blast  that  shall  scatter 

*  Lutha,  swift  stream. 


SCEXE  I.  THE  BETKOTHED.  47 

my  leaves.  To-morrow  shall  the  traveller  come  ;  he  that 
saw  me  in  my  beauty  shall  come ;  his  eyes  will  search 
the  field,  but  they  will  not  find  me  !'  »  * 

Lev.  Alexander!   (He  throws  himself  at  her  feet,  seizes       10 
her  hands,  and  covers  his  forehead  with  them.)  Our  part- 
ing would  be  to  me  only  a  changed  name  for  death,  and 
though  you  do  not  know  what  grief  would  do  with  me, 
I'll  tell  you — my  life  would  not  long  remain. 

Alex.  How  would  you  have  me  act — you  have  learned       15 
that  there  is  another  who  has  a  prior  claim  to  your  endear- 
ment ;  a  seal  that  has  long  been  promised  with  your  own 
father's  blessing.  You  know  that  the  sacred  bond  of  friend- 
ship binds  me  to  him  as   strongly  as   the  cord  of  love 
between  ourselves  :  I  have  concluded  that  one  of  us  three       80 
must  make  the  sacrifice, — it  shall  be  me. 

Lev.  I  ask  it  of  you  as  a  favor,  that  you  will  not  go  on 
farther  in  this  manner, — I  ask  it  in  the  name  of  the  love 
you  bear  for  my  peace  and  tranquillity. 

Enter  IDA,  R. 

Ida.  The  Count  Tertsky  awaits  your  pleasure.  g5 

Lev.  Tell  him  I  am  now  engaged — that  I  cannot  see 
him  this  moment — that  I  will  meet  him  presently. 

[Exit  IDA,  R. 

I  feel  in  such  a  condition  that  I  scarce  know  the  mean- 
ing of  the  words  I  uttered.     Will  you  not  linger,  and       90 
let  us  receive  him  together. 

Alex.   I  cannot. 

Lev.  Then  say  adieu, — and  of  this  be  assured  that  the 
joy  of  our  next  meeting  will  repay  the  pangs  that  this  has 
occasioned.  95 

Alex.  I  cannot  say  so. 

Lev.  Thou  would'st  not  leave  me  to  despairing  hope  ! — 
Look  on  me — heart  and  soul  I  am  thine  own — since  I 
have   known   thee   I   have  been   thine,   and   only  thine. 
Thou  know'st  I  am  and  have  been  but  thine  only.     Dost     100 
thou   not   hear    me  ?      Have   I   done   nothing,    suffered, 

*  <7/.,  the  Elegy  on  the  death  of  Malvina,  the  daughter  of  Tos- 
can  in  Ossian's  poein  of  Berrathon  ;  translated  by  James  Macpher- 
son,  Esq. 


48  THE  BETKOTHED.  ACT  III. 

and  abandoned  nothing  for  thee,  since  I  have  known  thee  ? 
Why  was  it  so  ill-fated  that  we  should  meet, — or  else 
should  I  never  have  been  plunged  into  this  wretchedness  ! 

105  But  now,  methinks,  though  thou  should'st  hate  me,  still  am 
I  thine  !  Though  thou  should'st  leave  me  !  no — no,  thou 
could'st  not  do  so  base  a  thing  as  leave  me — could'st  thou  ? 

Alex.  I  could  for  ever  listen,  but 

Lev.  Alexander !  remember,  thou  mayst  deny  me,  but 

110  I  shall  be  as  ever,  true  to  thee,  sole  possessor  of  this  heart, 
as  life  and  thought  will  witness,  while  they  remain  within 
me.  And  though  death  should  steal  on  me,  and  reason 
itself  should  leave  me,  thy  own  dear  name  would  be  the 
last  upon  my  lisping  breath  ! 

115  Alex.  Ah,  dearest !  would  that  thy  faith  from  on  high, 
was  crowned  with  blessings  endless  as  thy  love.  (Aside, 
after  a  pause.)  While  thou  art  standing  near  me,  sorrow 
seems  but  something  without  a  being,  but  in  thy  absence 
shall  I  soon  learn  its  meaning.  (Aloud.)  Adieu  ! 

120  Lev.  Adieu  !  (Exit,  ALEXANDER,  R.)  Adieu  ! — adieu  ! — . 
(  Throws  herself  into  a  chair,  R.  )  Though  I  am  crossed  by 
many  forethoughts,  still  can  I  no  wrong  ever  conceive  of 
thee. 

Enter  IDA,  c.  D. 

Ida.  (c.)  Count  Tertsky  awaits,  [Exit,  R. 

Enter  NICHOLAS,  c.  D.,  dressed  as  a  huntsman. 

125         Lev.  (With a  courtsey.)  Nicholas! 
Nich.   (R.  c.)  Levangeline  ! 

Lev.  (Approaching.)  We  were  not  so  distant  when  we 
met  of  old  ; — you  are  not  looking  the  same  as  on  your 
return  yesterday  : — are  you  well  ? 

130  Nich.  I  am  in  body.  (Aside.)  If  but  iny  heart  was  as 
the  sage  of  old  would  have  had  the  breast  of  man, 
a  mirror  in  which  we  could  view  each  the  other's  faults, 
and  learn  our  feelings  ! — I  must  say  something.  (Aloud.) 
We  are  nine  years  older,  and  the  remembrance  of  our 

135  former  love,  say  friendship  if  you  choose,  has  returned  to 
us  amidst  sorrowful  trials  and  disasters. 


SCENE  I.  THE   BETROTHED.  49 

Lev.  True  it  is  silent  grief  that  gnaws  the  deepest;  it 
is  your  consolation  for  the  loss  you  may  meet  at  an  early 
day  in  one,  that  has  been  bound  to  you  by  the  strongest 
cords  of  friendship;  and  to  whom  I  was  as  dear  as  his     140 
only  child. 

NicJi.  (Aside.)  If  I  go  on  thus,  I  shall  never  have  the 
fortitude  to  gain  the  object  of  my  visit. — I  must  change 
her  thoughts. — Tell  me  wherefore  looks  Frederick  so 
altered  ?  145 

Lev.  A  cloister  in  a  far  distant  convent  would  tell  the 
tale  of  one  coarsely  attired,  but  well  pleased  to  calmly 
endure  religious  hardships,  to  fast  and  next  to  chill  at 
midnight  prayers,  to  live  with  melancholy,  half  speechless 
souls  like  herself,  and  bless  kind  heaven  that  her  days  are  150 
lengthened  to  expiate  her  grief  occasioned  by  one  she 
loved. 

Nich.  As  has  often  happened.     But  the  cause 

Lev.  Was  this ;  while  he  was  mistrusting  the  faithful- 
ness of  the  tenderness  that  had  taken  possession  of  the     155 
heart  of  one  towards  him,  he  became  attracted  by  another. 

Enter  IDA,  hurriedly,  R. 

Ida.  (c.)  A  letter  for  my  lady.  Excuse  my  rude 
interruption,  but  the  bearer  bade  me  lose  not  the  earliest 
opportunity  to  give  it  to  you.  [Exit,  R. 

Lev.  Who  can  have  such  an  urgent  call  on  my  atten-     160 
tion  ?  (Observes  the  address.)  It  is  Alexander's  writing  ! 
(7s  about  to  break  the  seal,  when  NICHOLAS  interferes.) 

Nich.  I  pray  you,  Levangeline,  not  to  break  the  seal 
in  my  presence. 

Lev.  You  must  be  acquainted  with  its   contents,  or 
something  connected  with  its  history.     I  am  warned  of     165 
something  wrong  in  your  hesitation  and  silence. 

Nich.  Levangeline  !  have  I  ever  deceived  you  thus  far 
in  my  life  ? 

Lev.  No — no  ! 

Nich.   I   have   not    learned   its   contents,    but — but —     170 
(aside)  the  truth  would  kill  her ;   (aloud)  it  is  a  lasting- 
proof  of  his  love  for  you, — his  friendship  for  me. 

* 


50  THE   BETKOTHEP.  ACT  III. 

Lev.  This  contention  between  hope  and  fear  has  made 
me  frantic. 

175  Nidi.  Levangeline  !  by  that  confidence  you  place  in 
me,  I  again  pray  you  to  so  far  respect  my  feelings  as  not 
to  open  it  in  my  presence. 

Lev.   Here  then  let  it  rest,  within  my  breast  I'll  keep 
it,  and  read  it  quietly  to  myself  alone. 

180  Nick.  (Goes  up  to  window.)  This  beauteous  evening  is 
such  an  one  as  that  on  which  we  used  to  pass  upon  the 
waters,  caring  for  and  seeing  nought  but  ourselves  ;  those 
long,  gentle  moonlights,  when  my  fond  guitar  and  thy 
sweet  voice  went  up  to  Heaven  in  softest  melody.  It  is 
185  gone  ! 

Lev.  Oh,  Nicholas,  speak  not  of  it !     There  are  inci- 
dents in  this  world,  which  to  look  back  and  to  dwell  on, 
only  occasion  the  most  painful  sensations  to  our  pres- 
ent life.     Let  us  enjoy  the  present  and  forget  the  past. 
190         Nidi.  Levangeline,  it  is  in  keeping  with  those   senti- 
ments which  you  have  just  expressed,  that  I  would  speak. 
You  were  my  first  love, — and  shall  be  my  last.     Mine  was 
a  passion  that  like  a  seedling  planted  in  the  peasant's 
early  life,  who  goes  afar,  and  returns  in  hope  of  finding 
195     his   seed   grown   to   a  tree,    with    swelling    trunk,    and 

spreading  leaves,  but 

Lev.  (Interrupting.)    Spare   me  !    I   know   I   am   thy 

rightfully  affianced  bride,  but 

Nich.  Levangeline  !  what  passed  between  your  father 
200  and  the  Count,  save  what  thou  hast  heard  thyself,  I  am  a 
stranger  to.  That  thy  father  should  have  deemed  me  a 
fit  suitor  for  thy  hand,  was  just,  and  I  am  grateful  to  his 
memory,  but  true  love  looks  to  one  alone  for  its  sanction- 
ing,— its  chosen  subject. 

205         Lev.  Thou  meanest, 

Nich.  That  he  would  have  blown  the  bud  open  too 
suddenty, — genial  warmth  and  dew  alone  can  by  degrees 
effect  its  unfolding,  and  cause  it  to  open  its  heart,  and 
give  forth  its  perfume,  for  if  suddenly  opened  it  will  fade 
210  away  before  the  morrow,  leaving  nothing  of  its  perfume 
behind.  Levangeline  !  I  can  never  receive  such  a  gift — love 
desires  freedom,  and  constraint  or  even  that  which  bears 


SCENE  I.  THE   BETROTHED.  51 

its  appearance  causes  discontent,  and  debases  the  nobler 
heart  of  man  and  woman. 

Lev.  I  listen — let  me  hear  more  215 

Nich.  But  it  is  to  another  end  that  I  would  speak,  Le- 
vangeline.  I  know  your  heart,  and  the  one  to  whom 
you  have  already  given  it,  and  rather  than  he  should 
sacrifice  life,  name,  ambition's  hopes  for  me — in  the 
name  of  the  friendship  I  bear  him,  in  the  name  of  your  220 
love  for  him  I  have  resolved  to  make  a  sacrifice  for  both. 

Lev.   Oh!  no — no.  [Looking fondly  on  him. 

Nich.   It  is  not  despair  that   drives  me  to  it,  but  the 
conviction  that  I  have  filled  up  the  measure  of  my  life  ; 
that   I   have   reached  the   day  on  which  I  must  sacrifice     225 
myself  to  the  love  you  bear  him.     Why  should  I  not  con- 
fess it  ?     One  of  us  three  must  do  it — it  shall  be  me. 

Lev.  Listen,  listen,  to  reason's  voice, — let  me  entreat 
you  to  be  more  calm,  and  hear  me  ! 

Nich.  Speak  then.  230 

Lev.  Be  yourself  again,  and  overcome  an  unfortunate 
attachment  to  me,  whose  only  lot  is  to  pity  you.  Why 
must  it  be  only  me — me,  who  has  sworn,  by  a  purity  that 
equals  love  itself,  to  belong  to  another  ! 

Nich.  (Who  has  been  pacing  the  stage ;  stops  suddenly, 
and  interrupting  LEVANGELINE.)  Reason  on  the  subject  235 
as  you  may,  combine  all  the  arguments  which  you  can 
propose  as  an  inducement  for  me  to  desist  from  my  inten- 
tions, and  you  will  not  have  in  the  least  affected  my 
determinations. 

Lev.  Grant  me  but  a  moment's   patience,   and   listen     240 
further  ; — you  are  deceiving  yourself, — you   are  seeking 
not  only  your  own  destruction,  but  my  sorrow,  and  what 
more  I  dare  not  tell.     Is  it  not  only  the  impossibility  of 
possessing  me,  that  makes  the  desire  the  stronger  ?    Seek, 
and  you  will  certainly  find  in  this  world,  another  woman     245 
whose  love  remains  unpledged,  and  who  has  the  power, 
and  would  wish  to  make  you  happy.     Look  for  such  a 
woman,  and  be  persuaded  of  it,  that   you  will  certainly 
I'm d  her.     I  have  passed  a  dreadful  day  of  apprehension 
for  each  of  us, — the   peculiar    conditions   that   bind  us     250 
mutually     together     only    strengthen     it.       Seek     from 
another  quarter  a  woman  worthy  of  your  tenderness, — 


52  THE   BETROTHED.  ACT  III. 

come  back, — and  let  us  together  enjoy  the  happiness  to 
the  fullest  degree  that  can  spring  from  the  most  perfect 

255  friendship  that  exists  !  Do  as  I  have  spoken.  Come 
again  soon, — but  not  before  to-morrow,  for  I  will  send  for 
Alexander  yet  to-day.  [Gems-horn  heard  faintly. 

Nich.  I  will  reflect,  Levangeline.  I  must  now  be  away, 
for  the  huntsmen  were  already  collecting  when  I  entered  : 

260  and  I  promised  to  join  in  the  chase. 

Enter  IDA,  R. 

Ida.  There  is  a  messenger  without  that  craves  to  give 
a  communication  to  the  Count  Tertsky. 

Lev.  Ask  him  to  come  here.  \_Exit,  R. 

Enter  MESSENGER,-  R. 

Mess.  I  beg  your  lordship's  pardon,  and  my  lady's. 
265   This  is  the  Count  de  Tertsky. 
Nich.  I  am. 

Mess.  (Handing  a  note.)  This  is  a  note  addressed  to 
your  lordship. 

Nich.  How  came  you  acquainted  of  my  presence  here  ? 
270       Mess.  I  was  directed  to  wait  with  it  on  the  grounds, 
and  to  deliver  it  into  no  one's  hands  but  your  lordship's. 
I  did  so,  but  learning  that  your  lordship  had  not  arrived 
at  the  hunting  lodge,  and  was  most  probably  at  the  man- 
sion,— since  your  lordship  had  been  seen  some  time  since 
275  entering  the  doors, — I  thought  it  would  be  most  advisable 
for  me  to  lose  no  time  in  enquiring  as  I  have  done. 

Nich.  You  were  quite  right.  You  may  retire.  (Exit 
Messenger,  R.)  It  is  Alexander's  writing. — (Opens  it  with 
hesitation.)  I  cannot  read  it. 

Lev.  Read, — read — let  me  know  the  worst,  though  it 
280   should  prove  poison's  own  draught. 

Nich.  Then  I  will  read.  (Reads.)  "  My  dear  Tertsky:— 
the  morning  of  that  day  (to-morrow)  on  which  you  have 
invited  me  to  the  hunt,  at  the  very  hour  when  we  had 
destined  to  depart,  cold  mother  nature  may  hold  all  that 
285  is  mortal  of  this  agitated,  broken,  but  once  happy  man, 
who  in  his  last  hours  of  life  knows  no  pleasure  so  great 


SCENE  I.  THE   BETROTHED.  53 

as  that  of  being  loved  by  one,  with  whose  welfare  we  are 
so  intimately  connected.  (He  pauses,  and  then  resumes 
in  irregular  accent*.)  Since  3-011  left  me  I  have  passed  a 
dreadful  hour,  or  rather  let  me  say  a  propitious  one  ;  for  290 
it  has  fixed  my  purpose  ; — /  am  resolved  to  die  !  When 
I  tore  myself  from  her  this  very  hour,  my  senses  were  in 
the  utmost  tumult  and  disorder,  my  heart  beat  heavy, 
hope  and  every  ray  of  pleasure  were  fled  from  me  for  ever, 
and  destruction  seemed  to  encompass  my  very  being.  295 
My  troubled  soul  has  been  tossed  to  and  fro  by  many 
ideas,  and  as  many  schemes  !  at  length  I  have  resolved  on 
one  thought  which  is  fixed  firmly  on  my  mind, — I  will 
die — a  sacrifice  for  you." 

Lev.  (  Who  has  been  listening  to  the  letter,  with  visible 
signs  of  the  deepest  agitation,  slowly  advances,  and  throws 
herself  into  his  arms.)  Oh!  300 

Nich.  What  would  you  have  me  do  ? 

Lev.  What  can  you  ! 

Nich.  I  will  tell  you.     (LEVANGELTNE  withdraws  from 
him. — Aside.)  This  is  the  last  and  worst  struggle  of  all. 
What  hearts   I  have   to  contend   with  ! — (Aloud,)    Fear     305 
nothing. — I  would  not  rob  him  of  a  holier  love  than  mine. 
/  will  depart  ! 

Lev.   Depart  ? 

Nich.  (Endeavoring  to  evade  his  meaning.)    That  is,  I 
will  away,  seek  for  him,  and  find  him.     He  may  be  ap-     310 
proaching  here  this  very  moment,  and  it  would  be  best 
for  us  not  to  meet  in  this  condition — it  would  only  serve 
to  fix  his  resolution  the  deeper.     It  is  best  for  you  to 
meet  him  alone.     I  shall  return,  and  will  be  at  the  hunt- 
ing lodge.    You  can  send  for  me  there,  if  you  should  wish     315 
to  see  me.     How — how  should  I  ever  lose  such  a  friend 
as  that !     If  he  comes,  you  will  endeavor  to  calm  him, 
and  use  your  best  efforts  to  assuage  him  from  his  deter- 
mination.    We  may  yet  all  be  happy, — happy  as  we  have 
always  been  since  our  childhood  !     I  have  nothing  to  ask     320 
your  pardon,  since  first  we  met ;  have  I  ? 

Lev.  Oh,  no  ! 

Nich.  Do  you  remember  when  last  we  parted  ?  I  came 
one  evening,  and  saw  you  weeping  by  my  side, — I  kissed 
you,  and  put  that  cross  upon  your  neck,  the  same  as  that  325 


54  THE   BETROTHED.  ACT  III. 

you  wear  ;  and  its  brilliants  aided  by  the  gentle  light  of 
dawn  —I  remember  well  the  tint,  I've  seen  it  often  in  the 
East — seemed  to  cast  upon  your  face  a  ray  of  hope  ; — the 
great  cathedral  bell  tolled  out  for  Easter  morn's  mass,  we 

330  bade  farewell, — you  went  afar  to  an  Italian  convent,  where 
you  remained  till  I  departed  for  the  East.  You  counted 
scarcely  twelve  years  when  last  I  saw  your  face  ;  we 
would  still  have  recognized  ourselves,  would'st  thou  not, 
Levangeline  ? 

335  Lev.  Ah  yes,  ah  yes  ! — I  only  cared  to  be  mistress  of 
this  cross,  for  it  was  of  the  few  things  that  I  loved  half- 
killingly. 

Nick.  Have  you  ever  opened  the  clasp  that  closes  its 
back  ? 

340  Lev.  I  never  have.  (She  opens  it  with  the  aid  of  NICH- 
OLAS, and  takes  out  a  folded  paper,  which  he  opens  and 
presents  her  to  read.)  "Love,  you  will  not  now  under- 
stand these  words  written  in  that  most  beautiful  of  all 
languages ;  but  at  an  early  day,  when  you  shall  have 

345     arrived  in  that  land,  you  will  find  those  that  may  intro- 
duce you  to  their  sense.    Be  careful  in  whom  you  confide, 
for  fear  of  being  compromised." 
Nich.   Read  the  lines  in  Italian. 
Lev.  I  cannot  but  to  myself  alone. 

350  Nich.  Then  I  will  save  you  that  pain  ;  and  when  soon 
you  shall  think  how  fondly  hope  has  risen  on  you,  and 
one  shall  take  you  as  the  pledge  of  future  fortune, — 
remember  the  past: — but  do  not  grieve  over  me,  when 
you  shall  soon  learn  how  I  have  loved  you  both. 

355         Lev.  Adieu  ! 

Nich.  Farewell !  (Aside.)  it  may  be  forever. — (Aloud.) 
Think  of  me  sometimes  whilst  distance  divides  us,  but 
it  never  shall  unless  you  wish,  if  spirits  think  and  are 
empowered  to  look  on  the  world  beneath,  for  you  ever 

360     shall  be  my  first  and  only  thought. 

[He  draws  close  to  her,  their  eyes  meet,  sJie  stands  silent  for 
a  moment,  and  then  perceiving  for  the  first  time  the  firm- 
ness of  his  resolution,  throws  herself  into  his  arms  ;  he 
presses  her  to  his  heart.  Door  alarum  heard  without,  c. 


SCENE  I. 


THE  BETROTHED. 


55 


Nich.  Hark,  what's  that  noise  ?  'tis  the  alarum  ! 

[ALEXANDER  is  observed  at  c.  D.,  as  in  the  act  of  entering, 
but  pauses,  and  intently  gazes  on  NICHOLAS  and  LEVAN- 
GELINE  unobserved  by  either. 

Lev.  Heavens  !  let's  be  gone  !  if  he  should  be  come  ! 
[  They  part  from  their  embrace.    NICHOLAS  exits,  R. 

Lev.  Oh,  Nicholas  !  till  this  unpropitious  moment,  I 
never  knew,  how  dear  I  was  to  thine  memory : — but  in 
these  unaccountable  issues,  my  senses  seem  dissolved, 
and  my  only  solace  seems  to  be  destruction. 

[As  LEVANGELINE  approaches  c.  D.,  she  beholds  ALEX- 
ANDER, and  shrieks.  He  enters  just  in  time  to  catch  her 
in  his  arms  in  the  act  of  fainting. 


365 


END   OF   ACT   III, 


56  THE    BETKOTHED.  ACT  IV. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — A  woody  place  adjoining  the  grounds  aMached 
to  COUNT  MANDERSTEM'S  Mansion;  a  vieiv  of  mountains 
in  the  distance  ;  across  the  stage  back  runs  a  practicable 
winding  rocky  pass ;  Hunter 's  Lodge,  R.  1.  E.,  stake,  spit 
and  other  arrangements  for  a  roast,  R.  c.  front. 

MICHAEL,  (Enteriny  from  L.) 


IDN'T  know  that  it  was  of 
any  use, — scratched  on  it, — 
and  burnt  it  for  waste  paper. 

Enter  IDA,  from  Lodge,  R.  1.  E.,  with  a 
bouquet  of  yellow  roses  in  her  hand, 

Ida.    Good   day    to    you,     Monsieur 
5         Michael — how  passes  the  day  with  you  ? 
Mich.  Ask  of  my  note. 
Ida.  Where  is  it  ? 

Mich.  Ask  of  master's  coachman's  daughter, — ask  of 
the  fire. 
10  Ida.  It's  not  burnt  ? 

Mich.    She  did  not  know  that  it  was   of  any   use, — 
scratched  on  it,  and  burnt  it  for  waste  paper. 
Ida.  Of  what  did  it  speak  ? 

Mich  Of  woeful  absence  from  thee,  to  be  sure,  for  the 
15       last  twelve  hours. 
Ida.  Truly? 

Mich.  As  you  are  an  angel. 

Ida.  Not  a  fallen  one,  from  whom  you  have  any  harm 
to  look  for  ? 
20  Mich.  Nay,  nay,  an  archangel. 

Ida.  (Observing  for  the  first  time  the  difference  in  the 
color  of  his  stockings.}  Oh,  my  ! 
Mich.  What's  that  ? 


SCENE  I.  THE   BETROTHED.  57 

Ida.  Oh,  you'll  kill  me  with  laughter  ! 

Mich.  You  don't  understand  me  ! 

Ida.  Did  eyes  ever  behold  the  like  !  25 

Midi.  The  like  ! — why  I  was  handsome  yesterday  ! 

Ida.  Oh,  Michael,  do  look  at  your  stockings  ! 

Mich.  Yes — I've  lost  another  stocking — 

Ida.  How, — not  by  that  dog  again  ? 

Mich.  This   time,    it   blew   off  the   clothes'   line,    and     30 
master's  coachman's  daughter  lost  all  sight  of  it.     Those 
stockings,  the  only  relic  that  my  grand  sire  left  when  he 
was  forced  to  leave  his  native  France,  on  the  revocation 
of  the  edict  of  Nantes. 

Ida.  But  still  you  have  got  one  pair  remaining.  35 

Mich.  But  how  ? 

Ida.  Why  the  dog  tore  one  hose  of  the  first  pair, — and 
the  wind  took  one  of  the  second  pair,  and  still  there's  two 
remaining. 

Mich.  Yes,  but  they  are  each  of  a  different  color :  and     40 
apropros,  let  me  tell  you  another  morning's  incident — 

Ida.  This  daughter  of  your  master's  coachman  must 
have  some  designs  on  you. 

Mich.  Believe  me,  you  have  no  need  to  fear  jealousy 
now :  but  when  I  was  first  seated  at  the  table,  where  she     45 
sat  at  my  right  hand,  I  could  not  help  observing  that  her 
eye  was  constantly  and  steadily  fixed  on  me.     It  was  not 
for  me  to  take  notice  of  it  at  first,  judging,  as  any  one 
would,  that  it  was  4ue  to  the  attractive  power  of  my  per- 
sonal charms,  and  that  time  would  induce  her  to  some     50 
bolder  device.     But  finding  that  my  face  was   still  the 
object  to  which  her  eyes  were  directed,  I  began  to  grow 
much  abashed  at  my  own  modesty,  when,  to  my  sorrow- 
ful satisfaction,  master  informed  me,  that  the  eye  which 
I  thought  had  been  so  steadily  fixed  on  me,  and  excited     55 
my  vanity,  was  only  a  glass  eye,  and  was  as  unmeaning 
in  its  look  by  day,  as  it  was  quiet  at  night,  when  it  rested 
on  her  toilet  table,  by  the  side  of  her  glass. 

Ida.  From  high  expectations  often  comes  lofty  tum- 
bling. 60 

Mich.  (Kneeling  and  taking  her  hand.)  As  lowly  as  I 
am  now : — the  sight  of  those  yellow  roses  has  made  me  feel 
years  younger,  for  since  I  have  seen  them  in  your  hand 

8 


58  THE    BETKOTHED.  ACT  IV. 

these  five  minutes,  I  have  become  in  love  with  a  woman, 

65  who,  if  she  be  still  alive  must  be  five  years  within  my  own 
age. 

Ida.  Then  you  have — have  loved  before  ? 
Midi.  Let  me  tell  you  the  story — it  is  the  remembrance 
of  which,  just  refreshed  by  the  sight  of  that  rose,  that, 

TO  even  now,  does  not  fail  to  agitate  me  to  an  extreme 
degree.  I  was  twenty  years  of  age  ;  that  was  thirty 
years  ago,  when  my  uncle  announced  to  me  one  morning, 
that  he  had  determined  on  placing  me  in  the  army,  in  a 
regiment  that  had  been  raised  in  our  village.  I  must 

T5     confess  to  my  being  greatly  shocked  at  this, — not  that  I 

had  any  distaste  to  a  military  life,  for  I  should  have 

.    wished  to  have  seen  nothing  more  to  my  taste,  than  to 

find  myself  in  a  uniform,  surrounded  by  the  roll  of  the 

drum — but  I  was  in  love  !  nor,  indeed,  did  I  venture  to 

80  speak  a  word  of  this  to  uncle,  for  I  well  knew,  as  there 
was  an  old  faction  between  the  families,  he  would  have 
urged  my  enlistment,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  to 
thwart  my  attaining  the  thought  of  my  days  and  nights. 
But  I  fixed  on  another  plan..  I  had  another  uncle  of 

85  nearly  the  same  age  as  I  am  at  this  time,  who  had  much 
fondness  for  young  folk,  and  had  the  good  sense  to  be 
never  better  pleased  than  when  he  was  the  occasion  of 
pleasing  others — he  made  himself  the  confidant  and  pro- 
tector of  all  the  youth  of  the  neighborhood, — assisted 

90     every  worthy  applicant  in  cases  of  debt 

Ida.  (Interrupting.)  But  what  did  he  do  in  your  case  ? 

Mich.  As  I  was  soon  a  going  to  say, — I  went  to  his 

hous<e,  and  said  to  him,- — Dear  uncle,  I  have  fallen  into  a 

misfortune.     "  You  don't  know  what  that  means,"  sai(J 

95  he.  Don't  joke,  uncle.  "  I  will  bet  you,  that  you  have 
met  with  rw*  misfortune."  Now,  uncle,  I  have  too  much 
consideration  $o  be  the  occasion  of  your  losing,  which 
you  most  undoAiubftedly  would.  "Well,  tell  me,  then, 
what  has  befell  y<s&  t"  Uncle  Joseph  has  told  me,  that, 
100  he  ims  decided  that  1  $&aH  enlist,  ' '  There's  no  misfortune 
in  that, — £ or. setting  asfcf^  ibhe  rfek  of  life,  you  have  always 
promotion  iin  view."  Tjg^  always  in  vj#w,  answered  I. 
"  Are  you 'wanting  in  couigg®  ?"  Oh  !  no,  "  Well,  then,  I 
•can't  .understand  tfeat  you  hitys  any  reapon  for  not  wishing 


THE    BETROTHED.  59 

to  be  a  soldier."  The  reason  is — that — that — I  wish  to  105 
be  married.  "  Bah  !"  That  is  no  consolation  for  one  in 
love  !  "I  should  like  to  be  in  love  myself,  once  more, 
up  to  my  neck. — But,  tell  me,  who  this  girl  may  be  ?" 
Uncle,  she  is  an  angel !  "  Oh  !  yes,  I  don't  doubt  but  she 
is  an  archangel — but  what  earthly  name  does  she  answer  110 
to  ?"  Her  name  is  Ida.  "  That  is  her  Christian  name,  I 
want  to  know  her  family  name."  I  hesitated  at  this, — 
knowing  that  there  had  been  years  ago,  a  faction  between 
the  families — I  nevertheless  answered  his  demand  by  tell- 
ing him  her  name  is  Ida  Amelot.  115 

Ida.  (Aside.)  'Tis  strange — Ida  Amelot — but  then  my 
lover's  name  was  Michael  Bonasse, — not  Michael  Cabale. 

Mich.  And  I  continued,  without  leaving  uncle  time  for 
chiding  me,  that  for  all  her  name  is  Amelot,  she  has  a 
mind  and  heart !  "  Ah,  yes  !  I  don't  doubt  but  you  think  120 
so — and  if  our  family  used  to  have  sad  wranglings,  it  is 
no  reason  that  the  effect  of  the  evil  should  descend  like  an 
heirloom  to  our  children.  But  is  3rour  affection  paid  in 
return,  as  we  used  to  s&y  ?"  Really,  uncle,  that  is  just 
what  I  wish  to  learn  ;  for  I  do  not  know  that  she  even  125 
suspects  me  of  loving  her.  "  You  know  very  little  of  the 
sex,  to  know  so  little — she  knew  it  as  soon  as  yourself," 
said  he.  "  Well,"  he  continued,  "  there  are  some  chances 
against  her  being  yours.  You  know  of  the  family  dissen- 
sions, and  I  doubt  if  your  uncle  will  bestow  his  nephew  130 
upon  her."  Well  then,  uncle,  there's  only  one  course  for 
me  to  choose.  "  Nonsense  !"  said  he,  "  don't  commit  any 
folly,  but  follow  my  course."  Very  well,  uncle.  "  In 
the  first  place  you  cannot  marry  at  eighteen,"  he  con- 
tinued. Why  not  ?  "  Because  I  won't  allow  you,  and  if  135 
you  cross  my  admonitions  you  will  lose  my  aid,  and  this 
marriage  will  never  take  place  at  all."  He  continued — 
"  now,  if  the  girl  loves  you,  and  should  be  willing  to  wait 
three  years  for  you —  Three  years !  said  I.  Uncle 
reassured  me,  "  if  I  began  to  argue  about  it,  he  would  desist  140 
from  lending  me  any  aid  whatever,"  at  the  same  time 
declaring,  as  before,  that  "  without  his  aid  the  marriage 
would  never  take  place.  If  she  will  wait,"  he  went  on, 
"you  can  join  a  regiment,  and  thus  fulfil  your  uncle 
Joseph's  wishes.  But  not  at  Cherbourg!  I  will  contrive  145 


60  THE   BETROTHED.  ACT  IV. 

to  have  you  put  in  one  a  few  leagues  from  .town,  where 
you  can  return  at  times."  Well,  uncle,  the  only  ques- 
tion is,  if  she  loves  me — how  am  I  to  find  this  out  ? 
"  Why  simply,  by  asking  her."  I  dare  not — I  have  often 
150  wished  to  tell  her  that  I  loved  her,  when  I  have  been 
abashed  at  my  own  timidity,  though  I  have  tried  to 
obtain  courage  in  all  ways ;  I  have  even  written  notes 
avowing  my  intentions,  and  burnt  them  undelivered ; 
and  when  an  opportunity  offered  for  speaking  to  her  on 
155  the  point,  the  first  word  always  choked  me — and  I  ab- 
ruptly changed  my  talk  to  some  other  subject  —  it  is 
always  the  first  word  that  is  the  difficulty.  Dear  uncle, 
a  sudden  idea  strikes  me.  "  What  is  it  ?"  I  have 
determined  to  write  to  her.  "  Do  so."  I  returned  home, 
160  and  sat  about  writing  my  note  at  once.  There  was  no 
difficulty  in  the  writing,  but  it  was  the  delivery  of  the 
note  that  was  to  be  planned.  I  lost  no  time,  however, 
in  fixing  upon  the  means  of  its  delivery  to  her :  I  pro- 
cured a  bouquet  of  yellow  roses,  loosened  the  string,  and 
165  placed  the  billetdoux  in  the  middle  of  the  bouquet,  and 
tied  it  up  again. 

Ida.  Of  what  did  it  tell  ? 

Mich.  Of  the  avowal  of  my  love,  and  of  the  desire  to 
have  her  acknowledged  return,  that  she  would  wait  for 
110  me  till  such  time  as  I  asked  her,  if  she  listened  to  my 
entreaties,  to  wear  in  her  bosom,  on  that  evening,  one  of 
my  yellow  roses,  which  I  would  take  as  a  signal  to  speak 
with  her,  and  I  would  tell  her  all  that  would  be  necessary 
for  her  to  do  to  secure  our  happiness. 

175        Ida.  (Aside.)    I  become   bewildered — what !    did   you 
place  a  billet  within  the  bouquet  ? 
Mich.  Yes. 

Ida.  And  what  followed  ? 

Mich.  In  the  evening  Ida  did  not  wear  a  yellow  rose 

180    in  her  hair.     I  was  frantic.     I  told  it  to  my  uncle,  who 

declared,  that,  "I  had  been  deceived  from  the  first,  that 

she  had  never  loved  me."     To  which  I  added,  that  she 

had  always  acted  as  though  she  did, — she  always  looked 

so  mild,  and  seemed  so  glad  whenever  she  met  me,  and 

185   gently  reproached  me  when  I  came  a  little  late.     "  Ah, 

women  are   but  women,  and  love  to  affect  love,  for  the 


SCENE  I.  THE    BETROTHED.  61 

sake  of  having  it,"  said  uncle.     In  this  condition,  I  will- 
ingly consented  to  be  mustered  in  the  service  for  three 
years,  in  the  hopes  of  my  being  able  to  forget  my  Ida, 
but  it  was  of  no  use— at  the  end  of  the  three  years  I    190 
returned  to  my  uncle's. house,  and  found  that  she  had 
even  left  the  country.     And,  do  you  believe,  that  I  still 
at  times  think  of  her,  not  as  she  must  now  appear  after 
twenty  years,  but  as   the   youthful  dame   of  seventeen, 
with  her  beautiful  brown  hair,  and,  as  I  used  to  call  them,    19t> 
velvety  black  eyes. 

Ida.  Did  you  never  learn  what  became  of  Ida  Amelot  ? 

Mich.  Only  this  much — that  she  became  the  wife  of 
one  of  your  countrymen,  whom  she  met  in  France,  and 
settled  in  his  country.  200 

Ida.  But  your  name  has  not  always  been  Michael 
Cabale  ? 

Mich.  No ;  that  is  the  name  I  adopted  while  under  my 
Uncle's  roof.  My  father's  name  was  Michael  Bonasse. 

Ida.  Is  it  possible!— Mich  ml!  205 

Mich.  What  means  this  ? 

Ida.   Yes,  she  loved  you  ! 

Mich.  She — who — who  told  you  so  !  But  what  of  the 
yellow  roses  ? 

Ida.  She  never  saw  the  billet.  210 

Mich.  (Aside.)  What  is  the  meaning  of  this — there's 
witchcraft  at  work. 

Ida.  Your  sudden  departure  threw  her  into  such  a  con- 
dition that  her  life  was  for  a  time  despaired  of;  but  in 
course  of  time,  like  you,  she  married  Stralenheim — and  is   215 
now  a  widow. 

Mich.   Stralenheim  ! 

Ida.  Yes,  whose  widow  Jam. 

Mich.  What,  are  you  ! — you  ! — Ida  Stralenheim  ? 

Ida.  As  sure  as  you  are  Michael  Cabale,  and  once  were   220 
Michael  Bonasse. 

Mich.  And  the  clay  has  come  when  we  should  have  met, 
and  loved  afresh,  without  recognizing  each  other  ! 

Ida.  Yes,  strange  as  it  appears. 

,    Mich.  But  tell  me  something  of  the  bouquet  of  yellow   225 
roses. 


62  THE    BETROTHED.  ACT  IV. 

Ida.  The  bouquet — I  have  always  preserved  it  in  a 
drawer  of  my  bureau,  though  it  has  years  since  faded. 

Mich.  Bring  it  out — bring   it   out.     (!DA  ex-its  hastily 

into  the  house,  and  re-enters  with  the  bouquet  in  her  hand.) 

230   Untie  it — untie  it.     (She  unties  the  bouquet,  apparently 

with  much  emotion ;  when  the  billet  falls  out ;  both  remain 

for  a  while  silent.) 

Ida,.   Will  you  see  me  again  to-day — at  another  hour 

Mich.  I  understand  you,   Ida.     You  are  right.     It  is 

best  that  this  renewal  of  our  hearts  in  youth  should  not 

effect  an  event,  which  is  to  afford  us  happiness  for  the  rest 

235   of  our  lives,  and  thus  at  least  atone  for  the  misfortunes 

of  the  past.     Who  are  these  n earing  ? 

Ida.  The  band  of  monks  belonging  to  the  monastery 
that  lies  on  the  mountain  yonder. 

[MICHAEL  and  IDA  ivalk  up  the  stage,  R.  c. 

[A  band  of  Monks  and  Choristers  passes  over  the  stage, 
from  R.  to  o.,  and  enters  the  rocky  pass  ;  goes  over  to  L., 
and  exits,  R;  the  Choristers  singing  the  following  re- 
frain of  a  chant : 

Give  ear,  ye  blessed  above,  give  ear, 

Harken  to  our  ev'ning  prayer, 

Harken  to  our  fear  of  despair, 
And  with  success  our  efforts  cheer. 

Mich.  You  tell  me  that  the  monastery  lies  beyond  on 
o  AQ  the  mountains  ? 

Ida.  Yes : — many  is  the  huntsman  that  could  tell  of 
the  hospitable  treatment  he  has  met  with  at  the  hands 
of  these  monks,  when  he  has  been  compelled  to  seek 
shelter  over  night,  under  their  roof. 

[Exeunt  MICHAEL  and  IDA,  L. 

[  The  inarticulate  refrain  of  a  hunting  chorus  is  heard 
in  the  distance,  off  R. 

Hilloa  ho  !  hilloa  ho ! 

The  mountains  are  echoing  with  hilloa  ho  ! 
Up  through  the  woodlands,  down  through  the  dale, 
Our  gemshorns  sounding  inspire  the  gale,  * 

And  echo,  mocking  the  hunter's  tale, 

Resounds  hilloa  !  hilloa  ! 


SCENE  II.  THE   BETROTHED.  6S 

[At  the  conclusion  of  the  refrain,  PHILIP  enters  from  the 
lodge,  stands  at  the  door,  and  sounds  a  strain  on  the 
gemshorn,  which  is  refected  in  an  echo,  and  exits 
through  the  door  of  the  lodge.  The  same  inarticulate 
echo  of  the  refrain  is  again  heard,  and  dies  away  as 
though  the  party  had  reached  that  part  of  the  mountain 
pass  which  destroys  the  echo.  A  hunting  party,  headed 
by  JOHN  and  HENRY,  bearing  their  prey,  enter  R.,  on  to 
the  rocky  pass,  and  cross  over  the  stage  to  L  ,  and  then 
over  to  R.,  and  to  c.,  on  to  the  stage,  singing  the  fore- 
going refrain.  PHILIP  and  his  party  enter  from  the 
lodge,  followed  by  their  wives  and  children,  leading  a- 
chamois.  Other  women  and  children  enter  from  L.  I 
and  2  E.  All  the  characters  take  up  the  chorus.  Some 
bring  forward  a  chamois  from  the  lodge,  which  they 
arrange  on  the  .spit ;  while  others  bring  forward  a  dog, 
which  they  place  in  the  turnspit.  The  moon  rises,  and 
all  the  characters  join  in  a  waltz. 

SCENE  II  —An  Ante-chamber  in  the  mansion  of  COUNT 
MANDERSTEM. 

Enter  LEVANGELINE,  L. 

Lev.  (L.  xj.)    Not  all  the  morn,  not  all  the  live- long     245 

morn, 

Hast  tkou  lbeen  with  me  1 — yet  a  feeling  sense, 
Within  this  breast  speaks  out, — thou  think'st  of  me  I 
And  that  is  at  least  a  consolation, 
Though  lit  "be  aught  else  vain  and  profitless*;  250 

[  Grosses,  R. 

Thus  -.am.  I  granted,  as  In  a  cloister  closed, 
Pressed  by  the  weight  of  sadness  ancfc  of  love,, 
To •  ask  .forgetful  dullness  stealing  oa  isae-, 
To  soften  and  assuage  this  gnawing  paioa  frou*  secret 
Dwelling  -ojn  mj  melancholy  thoughts- ;  255 

When  waking  as  from  a  watchful  Bkoafee?, 
On  every  side  I  turn  my  anxioi?s&  eyes^ 
To  look  for  hope,  ;aoid  find  thajfc  one'  hope  lost. 
And  though  I  waaider  thro u^  tkese  loft y 


64  THE   BETROTHED.  ACT  IV. 

260     Or  pace  the  balconade  with  longing  eyes, 
Nought  can  I  fix  my  watchful  eyes  upon, 
But  his  dear  image  constanly  appears, 
And  I  become  thus  savage  and  forlorn. 

[Crosses. to  L.,  and  seats  herself , .resting  her  head  on  her 
hand ;  and  directing  her  eyes  to  that  part  of  the  wall, 
where  she  discovers  a  spider's  nest. 

Oh  that  I  were  but  a  child  of  nature, 

265     To  admire  as  an  infinitely  curious 
Thing,  yon  creature  upon  the  wall, 
Which  moves  this  way  and  that  its  jointed  limbs, 
And  by  the  sole  powers  of  nature's  instinct, 
Guides  aright  each  nicely  balanced  motion 

270     Of  its  frail  frame  to  pleasurable  ends, 

A  moment  to  distract  my  unstable  mind 
From  its  dark  foreboding  of  forlorn  hope  ! 
I  have  tried  all :  yet  vainly — vainly  tried. — 
The  very  luxury  spread  'neath  my  feet, 

275     And  air  that  floats  heavy  with  fresh'ning  sweets, 
Seem  but  a  something  wearily  loathsome. 

[LEVANGELINE  pauses  for  a  moment  as  in  hesitation; 
then  exits,  R. ;  Ee-enters  with  FRANCIS,  c. 

Lev.  (R.  c.)  Do  tell  me  something  of  Nicholas. 
Fran.  Are  you  prepared  for  the  worst,  Levangeline  ? 
Lev.  (Gazes  on  him  for  a  moment,  ivith  a  countenance 
expressive  of  amazement.)  Yes. 

280  Fran.  He  was  scaling  a  mountain  with  others,  in  hot 
pursuit  of  a  chamois  that  had  just  fell  on  his  view,  when 
from  behind  a  stone,  with  peerless  speed,  the  animal 
rushed  forth,  and  became  entrapped  in  a  bush  by  his 
crooked  horns,  that  stood  high  upon  his  head.  In  that 

285  position  it  remained  till  Nicholas  quite  neared  to  it, 
when  as  by  love  of  life,  it  struggled  by  a  despairing  leap 
to  extricate  itself  from  among  the  twigs,  when  Nicholas 
renewed  the  pursuit  leap  after  leap,  till  stepping  on  a 
stone  that  chanced  to  be  loosened  from  the  rock,  he  fell 

290     a  distance  of  several  yards,  and  when  we  reached  the 


SCENE  II.  THE    BETROTHED.  65 

spot,  we  found  him  senseless,  and  in  this  condition  we 
bore  him  to  the  monastery,  intent  that  he  should  be  made 
a  subject  of  all  faithful  care. 

Lev.  Is  he  seriously  injured  ? 

Fran.  It  is  the  belief  that  he  is  not,  and  that  by  a     295 
proper  subsequent  course  he  may  quite  recover. 

Lev.  But  what  of  Alexander  ? — wiry  do  you  turn 
aside  from  me  ?  (FRANCIS  and  LEVANGELINE  rise.)  Tell 
me — tell  me,  Francis  I 

Fran.  I  am  told 300 

Lev.  What  are  you  told  ? 

Fran.  That  Alexander is-r 

Lev.  Is  what  ? — do  not  keep  me  in  such  dread  sus* 
pension. 

Fran.  That  he  is  in  a  severe  state  of  fever,  from  which     305 
his  physicians  say,  his  recovery  is  doubtful. 

[LEVANGELINE,  as  soon  as  she  hears  this,  shrieks,  and 
swoons  in  the  arms  of  FRANCIS. 


END    OP   ACT   IV. 


THE   BETROTHED. 


ACT  V. 


15 


20 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — LEVANGELINE'S  bedchamber ;  a  large  window 
extending  to  the  floor,  closed  by  inside  shutters,  and 
Italian  sash  in  side  flat,  R.  1.  E.  Door  communicating 
with  the  hall,  in  R.  c.  flat.  Two  windows,  darkened  by 
curtains,  in  L.  flat.  At  the  back,  L.  c.,  a  bedstead,  with 
drawn  curtains.  Bureau  R.,  near  tuindow.  Couch 
down  stage,  L.  c.  Small  table  with  a  goblet  of  water,  a 
crystal  cup,  and  different  phials  on  it,  R.,  near  window. 

As  the  curtain  rises  Cathedral  chimes  faintly  heard  off  R. 
LEVANGELINE  discovered  asleep  on  the  couch,  L.  c.  -/IDA 
seated  by  the  window,  L.,  has  fallen  asleep. 

LEVANGELINE,  (Awakening  as  from  a  dream.) 


IHOU  art  then  saved,  and  return- 
ed to  me.  (Holds  out  her  arms, 
as  if  in  the  act  of  embracing  some 
object. )  What  shall  now  part  us  ? 
(Suddenly  awaking  and  collect- 
ing her  thoughts.)  It  is  but  a 
dream — a  dream  at  last !  All 
has  been  but  a  succession  of 
empty  images,  and  I  awake  to 
dispel  the  charm.  (Calls  faintr 
ly.)  Ida— Ida! 
Ida.  (Awaking  and  coming  over,  L.)  What  would  the 
Countess  ? 

Lev.  Poor  creature,  you  were  sleeping  too  ; — I  thought 
you  looked  fatigued  when  you  assisted  me  from  yonder 
bed  to  this  couch. 

Ida.  I  pray  pardon  of  my  lady :  I  kept  my  eyes  open  so 
long  as  I  could,  and  even  commenced  to  count  the  hairs 
that  were  left  in  the  comb  from  the  last  time  I  dressed 
your  hair,  in  the  hope  of  its  entertaining  me ;  but  the 
exertion  proved  worse  than  the  pleasure,  and  I  fell  asleep 
over  it. 

Lev.  Give  me  some — some  water. 

Ida.  (Handing  a  goblet.)  Here  it  is,  my  lady 


SCENE  I.  THE   BETKOTHED.  67 

Lev.   (Takes  a  mouthful  and  returns  the  glass.)  That      25 
will  do,  Ida, — you  have  been  so  long  with  me,  that  you 
have  almost  learnt  to  anticipate  my  wants  from  the  ex- 
pression of  my  countenance. 

Ida.  Yes,  my  lady,  and  would  I  had  my  life  over  to 
serve  you,  that  I  might  show  you  how  dear  you  are  tome.  30 

Enter  FRANCIS,  R. 

Lev.  Who  is  that  ? 

Fran.  My  voice  is  my  usher. 

Lev.  (liaising  herself.)  Why,  Francis  !  how  glad  I  am 
to  see  you.  (Extends  her  hand.)  I  have  always  liked  you, 
and  if  I  had  not,  I  would  now,  because  you  and  Alexan-  35 
der  were  mutual  friends,  and  whatever  he  liked  is  dear 
to  me.  Ida,  you  may  retire.  Francis,  will  you  let  in  a 
little  of  that  sun  light.  (FRANCIS  opens  the  middle  shut- 
ters, and  looks  out  upon  the  view.)  It  must  be  near  sunset  ? 

Fran.  Yes,  and  the  moon  is  already  in  the  heavens.  40 

Lev.  (Aside.)  And  so  it  was,  when  Alexander  and  my- 
self parted  in  the  garden.  (Aloud.)  What  is  the  hour, 
Francis  ? 

Fran.   (Observing  his  watch.)  It  is  just  half-past  six. 

Lev.  It  is  the  hour,  and  over,  that  I  should  take  my     45 
powder  ; — I  passed  the  last   fever,  and  had   a  tranquil 
slumber. 

Fran.  What  sleep  have  you  had,  Levangeline  ? 

Lev.  I  slept  from  four  o'clock  till  within  a  few  moments 
before  you  entered.  50 

Fran.  I'll  prepare  your  powders  myself,  Levangeline: — 
you  know  it  would  be  uncourteous  to  say  the  least,  if  not 
unjust,  to  distrust  my  ability. 

Lev.  True,  Francis,  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  seen 
you  since  your  promotion  to  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Phi-     55 
losophy. 

Fran.  I  only  returned  at  three  this  afternoon. 

Lev.  How  kind  and  considerate  to  think  of  me  so 
early. 

Fran.  Don't  speak  of  that  now, — if  my  task,  when  fully      60 
finished,  should  be  proved  to  have  been  of  value  by  its 
good  ends,  then  I  shall  find  my  best  reward  in  the  con- 


68  THE   BETROTHED.  ACT  V. 

sciousness  of  having  faithfully  served  you.     (Mixes  the 
powders  in  a  glass  of  water.) 

Lev.  What  do  you  mean  by  serving  me,  Francis  ? 

65  Fran.  Well,  to  the  point,  I'm  going  to  take  my  tempo- 
rary lodgings  at  the  house  whose  chimney  top  is  just 
peeping  on  a  line  with  yonder  window,  and  though  my 
address  will  be  there,  my  residence  is  here  through  all 
your  trials. 

70  Lev.  Oh !  Francis,  my  days  will  be  drawn  out  in 
thanking  you ; — but  I  fear  my  wants  will  come  between 
you  and  your  dear  ambitious  objects  too  often. 

Fran.  This  powder  is  not  dissolved  sufficiently.  (Shakes 
the  glass  a  few  times.)      There, — its  last  traces  have  now 

75  disappeared.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  act  as  the  steward 
to  one  of  the  Roman  emperors ; — taste  the  food  before 
offering  it,  to  prove  its  quality  beyond  suspicion. 

Lev.   Oh,   no ;     I'm  sure  it's  quite  right,  if  you  have 
prepared  it.     (Drinks  the  medicine,  and  returns  the  glass.) 

80  It's  an  improvement  on  the  last  I  took,  which  could  not 
have  been  thoroughly  mixed,  for  it  clung  to  my  throat 
after  I  had  drank  it. — Francis,  give  me  your  hand,  and 
remember  my  words  ! — If  one  day,  you  should  meet  a 
lonely,  handsome,  chaste  girl  that  may  possess  all  to 

85  make  her  worthy  of  yourself,  and  you  should  seek  her 
love,  tell  her  that  one  who  loved  you  as  a  brother,  would 
tell  her  to  take  all  of  you.  Now  open  yonder  stand 
drawer,  and  a  little  to  the  left,  you  will  find  a  small  key 
connected  to  another  by  a  pink  ribbon, — with  it  open  the 

90  casket  on  the  bureau  top, — and  there  you  will  find  a  like- 
ness : — I  had  it  lately  taken,  and  you  well  know  for 
whom.  If  under  the  patient  care,  you  have  so  kindly 
proffered,  I  should  not  linger  long,  hang  it  in  a  treasured 
spot  within  your  own  apartments,  and  as  often  as  you 

95     look  upon  it,  think  of  one  that  regarded  you  as  /  do  ! 

Fran.  I'll  keep  it  amongst  my  choicest  jewels  of  the 
kind. 

Lev.  And  more, — the  day  that  Alexander  and  myself 
were  strolling  in  the  garden,  just  the  same   hour,  and 

100  much  the  same  weather  too  as  this,  I  wore  upon  my  left 
breast  a  delicate  mimosa,  a  piece  of  which  I  gave  to  him 
on  parting,  the  rest  I  have  ever  since  preserved,  still  fresh 


SCENE  I.  THE    BETROTHED.  69 

and  blooming  in  yonder  little  vase.  If,  as  I  said  before, 
I  should  not  linger  long  under  your  faithful  service,  bury 
them  with  me,  and  strew  my  grave  with  leaves  of  others  105 
like  those  my  mother  planted  on  my  father's  grave  ;  and 
perhaps  chance  or  the  wind  will  cast  a  few  of  the  seeds  of 
some  of  them  amidst  the  grass  which  shall  cover  his  own  ! 

Fran.  Levangeline  !  you  must  not  broach  such  thoughts. 
I  am  a  sensitive  disposition,  and  you  would  be  the  means  110 
of  my  losing  faith  in  my  own  services.  I  did  not  enter 
life  by  dealing  in  improbabilities,  much  less  impossibili- 
ties. Mark  me, — you  are  yet  to  be  happy,  but  I  know  as 
little  of  the  means,  as  the  little  that  your  faith  depends 
on.  115 

Lev.  Will  you  draw  to  the  left  shutter,  the  light  strikes 
my  eyes  ? 

Fran.  (Goes  to  the  window,  and  closes  the  left  inside 
shutter,  at  the  same  time  looking  out  upon  the  road.}  I 
descry  a  cloud  of  dust,  from  which  I  observe  Frederick  to 
prick  forth  on  horseback,  as  it  rolls  on  towards  the  120 
house.  I  suppose  he  is  on  some  errand  of  compassion, 
you  know  he  has  relinquished  the  world,  and  has  offered 
himself  to  it  as  a  friend  to  misery.  He  has  not  turned 
the  corner — forsooth  he  is  Hearing  here.  I'll  leave  you 
for  a  moment,  and  will  place  the  alarum  within  your  125 
grasp,  in  case  you  should  be  suddenly  in  want  of  any 
thing.  [Places  a  hand  bell  on  the  couch.  Exit,  R. 

Lev.  He  is  not   designed    for    this  world : — I'm  sure 
such  a  devoted,  disinterested  heart,  aspiring  soul,  will  be 
abused  on  this  cold  earth.     Now  that  letter,  whose  seal  I    130 
never  yet  have  had  the  courage  to  break. 

[She  rises  on  the  couch,  makes  a  few  steps,  and  is  obliged 
to  pause ;  then  resumes  her  steps,  and  reaches  the  win- 
dow, R.,  after  some  exertion,  which  she  opens ;  seats  her- 
self, and  looks  out  into  the  street.  A  peal  is  heard  from 
the  chimes  of  the  Cathedral,  which  is  supposed  to  be 
directly  opposite,  intermingled  with  the  tones  of  the 
organ. 

It  is  a  holyday  in  the  Church,  Good-Frida}^,  and  there 
are  the  pious  souls  wending  their  way  to  Vespers.     It  is 


70  THE   BETKOTHED.  ACT  V. 

Good-Friday  !  and  distant  only  two  days  from  Easter, 

135  the  day  on  which  three  years  ago,  I  left  the  Convent. 
'Twere  better  I  never  had. — Oh  !  that  was  a  cruel  thought, 
for  how  well  purchased  were  those  few  days  of  bliss, 
though  at  the  price  of  the  life  of  misery  I  now  lead. 
(Goes  to  the  stand,  opens  the  drawer,  takes  out  a  letter, 
drops  it,  picks  it  up,  breaks  it  open,  and  reads.)  "It  is 

140  midnight  now.  All  the  world  is  hushed  around  me,  and 
I  am  possessed  of  calmness  I  know  not  how  !  Levange- 
line,  I  have  just  opened  my  eyes  on  the  heavens,  and 
through  a  faint  breach  in  a  dense  cloud  that  was  just 
passing  over  my  window,  I  saw  some  stars,  and  amongst 

145  the  others  Vesper,  the  Evening  Star,  it  is  a  beautiful 
name,  and  one  of  the  favorites  too  with  the  astronomer, — 
it  was  this  that  shone  upon  us  at  our  last  parting  in  the 
garden,  and  on  which  I  have  often  since  looked  with  rap- 
ture, and  made  it  a  witness  of  our  past  felicity !  I  see 

150  you  in  it  as  I  do  in  all  things  that  make  life  dear  to  me. 
You  are,  therefore,  even  with  me  now.  Levangeline  !  I  am 
obliged  to  a  friend  for  noting  these  my  freshest  thoughts." 

[She  drops  the  letter,  and  remains  for  some  moments  in  a 
state  of  mental  stupefaction,  then  starts  up  with  a  shriek. 

He-enter  FRANCIS,  R. 

Fran.  Levangeline  !  how  came  you  there  ? 

Lev.  By  my  resolution. 
155        Fran.  There's  strange  news  abroad  ! 

Lev.  Strange  news  ! 

Fran.  Yes,  what  you  would  least  believe,  but  would 
most  wish  true  for  your  own  happiness. 

Lev.  (Eaisi'ng  herself.)    Do  not   taunt   me  thus   with 
160  base  deception; — 

Thy  eye  something  foretells  ; — thy  tongue  says  nothing. 

Fran.  Alexander  lives  ! 

Lev.  He  lives  !     [Falling  on  him. 

Fran.  Ay,  truly. 

1 65       Lev.  If  he  still  lives,  wherefore  said'st  thou  he  died  ? 

Fran.  Levangeline  !  you  soon  shall  learn  the  whole  ; 
For  Frederick's  come,  full  of  haste  and  joy. 


SCENE  I.  THE    BETROTHED.  71 

Enter  FREDERICK,  n. 

Lev.  He  lives  !  speak  it  again  !  Speak  it  again  ! 
It  comes  to  me  each  time  with  new  born  freshness, 
As  an  untold  tale  !  Speak  it  again  !  170 

Let  me  be  sure  of  it, — for  I'm  carried 
In  exstacy  be}^ond  my  senses  ! 
If  it  be  true,  I'll  fall  and  worship  thee ; 
'Tis  the  pride  of  thy  dear  philosophy 

To  speak  consolation  to  distracted  spirits,  175 

And  mine  is  one  of  them. 
Speak  it  again  !  does  Alexander  live  ? 

Fred.  Keep  in  calmness  while  I  speak. 

Lev.  Speak  at  once, — 

I  hang  upon  the  utterance  of  thy  lips,  1 80 

Drinking  their  accents,  though  they  should  prove  vain. 

Fred.  As  I  was  about  leaving  the  body  of  our  friend 
for  a  short  absence,  I  thought  I  observed  something 
seeming  much  like  a  muscular  contraction, — when,  aided 
by  this  little  glass  which  I  hold  in  my  hand,  (Exhibiting  1 85 
a  watch  glass,)  by  placing  it  quite  over  his  lips,  and  keep- 
ing it  thus  arranged  for  a  few  seconds,  I  removed  it  to 
where  the  light  shone  bright  upon  it,  when  I  witnessed 
that  the  glass  was  become  slightly  clouded  by  a  dense 
moisture, —  which  was  in  truth  his  own  condensed  breath.  190 
I  lost  no  moments  in  questioning  the  rightful  authority, 
his  own  physician,  when,  on  my  return,  I  found  that  he 
had  even  provided  for  his  doom, — for  according  to  his 
sealed  instructions,  directed  to  me,  his  body  was  to  be 
buried  by  four  household  menials,  accompanied  by  a  sole  195 
priest,  and  his  own  faithful  valet, — and  after  the  first  day 
to  be  reduced  to  ashes,  enclosed  in  a  silver  urn,  fashioned 
as  a  broken  anchor,  and  thus  finally  interred  in  the  man- 
ner that  his  friends  should  agree  on. 

Lev.  Oh  !  let  me  thank  thee,  who  hast  thus  saved  him,    200 
Whose  life  was  part  of  mine  ;  and  though  languishing 
Faintness  forbids  me  more  to  express, 
My  heart  would  tell  thee,  I'm  grateful  to  thee  ! 
I  ever  thought  thee  to  be  more  than  friendly, 
And  if  thou  art  thus  empowered,  grant  me  this  ! —  205 

Bring  him  I  love,  one  moment,  lest  I  die. 


72  THE   BETROTHED.  ACT  V. 

[FREDERICK  nods  assent,  and  exits,  R.,  FRANCIS  helps  her 
to  a  seat,  then  exits,  R. 

Ay,  I  will,  must  see  him  while  I  may  live. 
My  love  !  haste,  a  word  might  kill  me  outright. — 
Those  hollow  footsteps  on  the  outer  hall ! 
210   I  hear  him  ; — he  is  come  ; — it  is  he  !  it  is  he  ! 

ALEXANDER  enters  unobserved  by  LEVANGELINE. 

Alex.  Levangeline  ! 

Lev.  That  voice  !  it  is  still  his  own  ! 

[  They  rush  into  an  embrace. 
Alex.  Levangeline  !  thou  art  mine  ! 
My  love  !  my  joy  !  my  world  !  sum  of  my  life, 
215   Thought  of  my  thoughts, — thy  smiles  my  blessings  ! 
In  a  sad  hour  I  dreamt  of  a  future 

That  did  not  wear  thy  love, — Thou'st  still  been  faithful : 
Henceforth,  our  lives  are  one  for  evermore  ! 

Lev.  Which,  say  but  which  of  you  shall  I  kneel  to, — 
220   Thou,  who  art  spared  to  me,  or  he  who  by 
Thus  saving  thy  life,  in  that  has  saved  mine  ! 
Alex.  Let  us  talk  of  joy, — joy,  Levangeline. 
Let  us  banish  the  past  whose  grim  visage 
Falls  on  us  with  such  deep  and  hideous  blackness. 
225  We'll  fly  to  the  future, — to  the  morrow. 

By  to-morrow  morn's  dawn,  if  thou  shouldst  chose, 
Our  clasping  hands  shall  meet  by  the  altar, 
As  waves  upon  the  shore,  that  part  no  more. 

Lev.  Ah,  yes  ;  but  there  will  be  an  eternity 
230  Before  the  morrow. 

Alex.  But  think  not  on  it, 

Levangeline  !  and  'twill  steal  upon  us, 
As  the  midnight  hymn,  on  that  beauteous  night, 
When  we  were  seated  beneath  thy  lattice, 
235   In  speechless  intercourse,  listening  to  all 
Creation  syllabing  our  tales  of  love. 

Lev.  It  is  but  evening  yet — the  sun  hath 
Just  fell  golden  on  his  pavilioned  arch — 
The  moon  sits  like  a  white  beacon  of  light 
240   In  the  darkening  silence  of  twilight-— 


SCENE  II.  THE   BETKOTHED.  73 

The  restless  breeze  doth  gently  sway  the  trees, 
Rocking  to  rest  the  birds  that  build  upon  them. 
Do  not  thus  come  to  speak  of  the  morrow 
With  power  in  thyself  to  scare  off  Time's  hand. 

Alex.  The  sun  no  more  shall  look  on  us  in  sorrow  ;  —       245 
The  night  is  nigh.     Would  we  might  be  empowered, 
To  move  the  dial  without  waiting  its  return. 

Lev.  Yet  I  do  weep  to  see  the  day  die  out  ; 
The  death-knell  of  a  day,  how  beautiful  !  — 
A  short  time  since,  I  woke  as  from  a  dream,  250 

And  fancied  that  thou  hadst  come  to  see  me. 
Thou  saw'st  me  —  flew  to  me  —  half  out  of  breath  ; 
Thy  hand  was  on  my  arm  —  thou  kissed  me  oft, 
And  put  my  long  black  locks  backwards. 

I  dreamt  —  and  woke  —  and  then  methought,  —  alas  !  255 

'Tis  but  a  dream  —  those  arms  will  never  fold  me. 

Alex.  Without,  without,  I'll  tell  thee  much  without. 
[ALEXANDER  leads  her  off,  R. 

Enter  IDA,  L. 

Ida.  (c.)  The  bed  chamber  is  empty  ;  my  lady 
Is  not  here  to  be  found  !     The  Count  Francis  too, 
Who  watched  near  her,  is  gone  too.     If  she  should  260 

Have  fled  —  but  wherefore  fled  ?     I  must  call  up 
The  menials  of  the  house.     I  think  I  hear 
Voices  and  footsteps  below  !     I  will  go, 
And  listen  without  the  door.     Hark,  who  is  that  ? 
I  hear  the  pacing  of  steps  through  the  hall.       [Exit,  R.       265 


SCENE  II.  —  The  liquor  vaults  in  the  mansion  of 

MANDERSTEM  ;    barrels,    baskets,    and     flasks    strewed 
throughout  the  apartment. 

Enter  FRANCIS,  FREDERICK,  and  the  BUTLER,  followed  by 
MICHAEL,  ALFRED,  and  Servants.  FRANCIS  and  FREDE- 
RICK come  forward,  R.  c.  BUTLER,  MICHAEL,  and  AL- 
FRED, c.  as  in  conversation.  Servants  pass  to  andfroin 
the  rear. 

Fran.  If  the  old  Count  and  his  lady  could  but  see  these 

10 


74  THE   BETROTHED.  ACT  V. 

strange  issues  to  their  preconceived  plans,  their  very 
vaults  would  echo  with  their  bodies  turning  over  on  their 
couches. 

2YO  Fred.  Yes,  yes,  my  lord.  It  is  but  true  there  never 
was  a  story  of  more  mysterious  turns,  and  such  an  unex- 
pected end,  than  this  we  have  each  witnessed.  But  I  fear 
this  connection  however  agreeable  to  themselves,  and 
pleasing  to  us,  looks  forward  to  no  good. 

2*15        Fran.  That  is 

Fred.  It  is  attained  under  the  most  unpropitious  cir- 
cumstances. 

Fran.  Heaven  forbid.  Never  did  a  marriage,  under 
such  peculiar  conditions  too,  seem  to  offer  a  brighter  pros- 

280  pect. 

Fred,  Well,  well,—  if  those  are  your  thoughts,  be  con- 
tented to  remain  by  them. 

Fran.  Yes,  for  I  am  the  better  persuaded  of  it  on  this 
head, — had  I  not  ventured,  even  against  my  own  convic- 

285  tions,  the  kind  deception  allowed  to  all  physicians,  and 
giving  her  the  appeasing  assurance  that  convalescence 
was  not  far  distant,  and  with  it  speedy  recovery  to  hopes 
unknown, — she  would  never  have  been  braced  in  spirit 
against  her  bodily  weakness  to  leave  this  mansion  for  the 

290   altar  before  the  hour  of  the  morning  mass. 

Fred.  Though  the  Church  would  tell  you,  there's 
nothing  like  religion  for  a  wounded  spirit. 

Fran.  I  well  knew  that,  and  lost  no  time  to  prepare  my- 
self against  the  dogmas  of  those  scalp-headed  Carmelites, 
that  would  have  taught  her,  shut  in  a  cloister,  to  treasure 
every  moment  of  her  life, — to  pray  for  the  lengthening  of 
her  days,  that  by  fasting,  tears,  and  midnight  chilling 
prayers,  she  could  draw  out  her  days,  till  every  ray  of 
hope  was  spent, — then  at  the  end  to  say,  you  may  now 

300   die,  for  you  have  well  grieved  enough. 

Enter  MICHAEL,  L. 

Mich.  Friar  William  awaits,  and  would  have  a  word 
with  your  lordship. 

Fred.  Ask  his  reverence  to  come  below. 

[Exit  MICHAEL,  L. 


SCENE  II.  THE   BETROTHED.  75 

Fran.  Yes,  ask  him  to  see  us  here, — for  if  the  apart- 
ment is  fitted  for  a  Baron  and  a  Doctor  of  Philosophy,  it   805 
is  enough  so  for  his  reverence. 

Fred.  (To  the  BUTLER.)  Have  a  flowing  bowl  in  readi- 
ness, and  I'll  warrant  that  you'll  receive  plenty  of  abso- 
lution in  return. 

[FREDERICK  and  FRANCIS  walk  aside  as  in  conversation. 

Butler.  The  best  of  wine  the  vaults  can  afford- — a  bottle  310 
of  the  last  fifty  years  vintage  of  Madeira  or  Port, — and 
add  one  of  Rhenish  from  the  Count's  own  possessions. — 
Let's  try  that  cask  of  Cognac  to  the  left.  (Servants  roll 
a  cask  down,  c.)  Now,  the  further  one  to  the  right.  Why 
do  you  stand  loitering  there  ? — I'll  find  if  you  have  any  315 
hearing  presently — that  cask  that  stands  furthest  to  the 
right.  Look  you  to  the  Champagne  cases,  and  examine 
if  none  of  the  flasks  be  broken  ;  (the  Servants  bring  for- 
ivard  a  case  of  Champagne  wine  ;)  see,  there's  one  broken 
before  your  eyes.  320 

^Re-enter  MICHAEL,  L. 

Mich.  His  reverence,  Friar  William  approaches. 
Enter  FRIAR  WILLIAM,  L. 

Friar.  Benedicite  vos. 

Fred.  Good  evening  to  your  reverence. 

Friar.  Have  your  lordships  nigh  prepared  for  the  mor- 
row's nuptial  ceremonies  ?  325 

Fred.  They  are  well  nigh  prepared,  your  reverence, — 
all  to  the  decking  of  the  festal  halls. 

Friar.  I  have  come  at  this  late  hour  of  the  day,  to  see 
that  we  have  brought  into  use  on  the  morrow,  the  bowl 
with  which  the  punch  was  served  at  our  Lady's  christen-   330 
ing  ceremony. 

Fred.  (  To  the  BUTLER.)  Do  you  know  the  vessel  ? 

Sutler.  Ay,  well,  my  lord.  (Aside  to  Servant.  Bring  me 
the  bowl  that  lies  in  the  case  on  the  upper  shelf  of  the 
plate  room.  335 

Fran.  (To  the  FRIAR.)  The  Butler  has  ordered  the 
vessel  to  be  brought  hither.  He  says  it  is  well  known  to 
him. 


76  THE    BETROTHED.  ACT   V. 

Butler.  Ay,  it  was  first  used  on  the  occasion  of  the 
340   marriage  of  her  ladyship's  father, — and  there's  not  another 
piece  more  precious  in  the  whole  contents  of  the  closets. 

Re-enter  SERVANT,  L.,  with  the  bowl. 

Fran.    Is   that   the  one  your   reverence  used  at    the 
christening  of  her  ladyship,  eighteen  years  ago  ? 

Friar.  (Examining  the  bowl.)  Ay,  the  same. 
345       Mich.  (Aside  to  ALFRED.)    This  will  be  something  to 
figure  in  the  Vienna  Zeitung. 

Fred.  Allow  me  to  have  a  look  at  it.   (Handles  it.)     It 
is  a  rare  gem,  indeed,  and  how  heavy  too. 

Fran.  As  well  it  may  be,  for  it  is  solid  gold, — -judging 
350  by  its  weight,  as  compared  with  its  size. 

Fred.  And  what  neat  chasing  is  embossed  upon  its 
outside.     How  natural  and  elegant  is  this  figure  ;  yet  one 
cannot  divest  himself  of  the  thought,  that  it  bears  a  like- 
ness to  the  panel  paintings  executed  on  the  chancel  doors 
355  by  the  friars  of  old ;  while  the  paintings  outside  the  door 
represented  the  passion  of  our  Lord,  the  inside  pictured 
wantonness  by  representing  the  loves  of  Cupid  and  Venus. 
So  in  this  vessel,  while  the  chasing  illustrates  the  Passion 
of  our  Lord,  its  contents,  or  the  punch,  would  denote  a 
360   source  of  revelry. 

Fran.  Let's  have  a  toast. 

Fred.    To  beauty's    fairest  flowers, — Alexander    and 
Levangeline,  the  offspring  of  our  birthland. 

Fran.  Be  it  so  !  a  glorious  toast. 

365       Fred.  I  cannot  drink  the  toast,  that  I  have  given,  for 
fear  of  drinking  to  the  dead. 

Fran.  Then  have  out  upon  your  conscience  ;  and  drink 
though  it  be  but  to  drown  its  officious  preachings  within. 

Friar  Will.  Life's  pleasures  are  a  battle  of  long  date, 
3fO   and  when  they're  won,  we  grasp  for  the  bright  bubble, 
which  breaks  in  its  rise.     [  They  drink  the  toast.     Exeunt 
FRIAR  WILLIAM,  FREDERICK,  and  FRANCIS,  R. 

Butler.  (As  he  is  going  off.)  Of  what  shall  I  sing  '( 

Mich.  Of  any  thing  merry, — of  wine. 

Butler,  (ftinyx.) 


SCENE  III.  THE   BETROTHED.  77 

While  the  wine's  flowing, 
The  senses  are  glowing, 
As  lightly  as  the  cork  floating, 
On  the  beer  froth  o'erflowing. 

[Exeunt   MICHAEL   and  ALFRED,  L.  :   BUTLER   and   SER- 
VANTS, R. 


SCENE  III. —  The  interior  of  the  Cathedral;  banners 
bearing  the  coat  armor  of  families  on  either  side;  a 
monument  to  the  memory  of  the  M ANDERSTEM  family,  R. 
c. ;  another  bearing  the  name  of  WIED  further  back. 

LEVANGELINE  and  ALEXANDER  discovered  kneeling  before 
the  altar,  c.,  as  at  the  close  of  the  marriage  service,  before 
whom  stands  FRIAR  WILLIAM  ;  after  which  they  approach 
near  front  of  stage,  c.  preceded  by  FRIAR  WILLIAM 
LEVANGELINE  faulters  and  falls  into  ALEXANDER'S  arms, 
where  she  remains  for  some  moments  in  speechless 
embrace. 

Lev.  Oh! 

Alex.  Levangeline !  375 

Lev .  (  With  an  effort.)       Alexander  ! 
Do  not  be  unwilling  to  hear  me  ! 

Alex.  Wherefore  should  I  ? 

Lev.  Thou  wilt  surely  be  ! 

Alex.  Thy  silent  look  has  killing  sounds  foretold.  380 

But  speak, — speak  the  mournfuFst  thought  thou  hast* 
While  I  gaze  on  thine  eyes,  thou  seem'st  to  me 
As  the  stars  in  the  prisoner's  dark'ned  cell : 
Thus  would  I  drink  the  music  of  thy  voice, 

And  if  its  words  should  prove  poison's  own  draught,  385 

There  may  be  richest  pleasure  in  its  dregs. 

Lev.  Hither  we're  come  to  take  our  last  farewell ; — 
For  life's  billows  are  fast  breaking  o'er  me, 
Steeped  in  the  sunlight  of  eternity  I 
I  feel  that  I  am  going  !  390 

Alex.  Not  dying ! 

Lev.  Ah,  yes, — nearer, — there's  something  I  would  tell, 
Ere  we  part  for  evermore,  but  not  forever. 


78  THE    BETROTHED.  ACT   V. 

For  we  shall  yet  meet  in  spite  of  sorrows, 
395    At  last  in  heaven, — thus  forget  the  past: 
And  if  the  fate  of  her  by  thee  beloved 
Doth  cause  one  grief,  then  think  she  suffers  nought : — 
But  if,  perchance,  thou  wilt  weep  still,  then  think 
That  love's  thy  fancied  sorrow,  and  live  to 
400   Love  the  dead,  and  me  whose  spirit  shall  live 
In  peace,  and  saint-like  purity,  and  prayer ; 
And  then,  when,  thine  shall  fly  afar  from  earth,   • 
I'll  pray  to  heaven,  that  it  may  join  mine  there. 

Alex.  I  cannot — dare  not,  look  upon  thee,  love  ! 
405    For  fear  of  looking  on  the  dying. 

Lev.  Speak  to  me  as  to  the  dying,  my  best  loved  ! 
The  dead  are  never  faithless — dost  hear  me  ? 

Alex.  Thus, — thus,  art  thou  punished  for  others7  wrongs. 
Leu.  You  were  my  life,  but  death  triumphs  o'er  it. 
410       Alex    Forbear, — forbear,  to  farther  pierce  this  stricken 

breast. 

Oh  heav'n  and  earth  !  should'st  thou  resolve  to  die, 
And  tear  all  beauty  from  this  widowed  earth, 
Then  let  a  couch  of  lead,  let  death's  cold  mantle, 
415   And  the  earth's  tall  grass  together  hold  us ; 
Ere  such  a  fate  shall  on  my  life  be  come, 
For  in  death  alone  I  should  find  peace. 

Lev.  (In  broken  accents  )  Alexander  !  still  here  !  Oh, 

killing  joy  ! 
420   Am  I  alive  !  is  this  delirium  ! 

'Tis  he,  'tis  my  best  loved  lover, — husband  ! 
(Sinking.)  Thou  art  fast, — fast  vanishing  from  my  sight, 
Let  me  feel  thee  still, — my  heart  would  tell  thee  more, — 
It  breaks,  it  melts, — it  is  not  adamant ! 

Alex.  (  With  his  whole  form  expressive  of  a  sudden  out- 
burst of  anguish,  raises  his  eyes,  and  falls  by  the 
425  side  q/"  LEVANGELINE.)  Levangeline  !  Levangeline  ! 

Still  deeper  be  my  life  atoned  for  thine  ! 

Lev.  I  am  passing  away — changing  scenes — 
Is  this  death — then  life's  a  dream — I  see  birds 
Of  ever  varying  plumes,  yonder — I  hear 
430   The  rustling  of  breezes  fanned  by  angel  wings — 

'Tis  spring  time — leaves  have  no  time  of  falling  there — 
They're  talking  of  things  past,  present,  and  to  come — 


SCENE    111.  THE   BETKOTHED.  79 

I  am  so  cold — strew  leaves  over  me. 

(Looks  into  the  face  of  ALEXANDER  for  a  moment,  and 

holds  out  her  hand  to  him.)     Come  !  [Dies. 

Friar.  Help  !  help  !  support  him  !  435 

Alex.  Nay,  nay,  'tis  too  late  ! 

In  a  few  moments  has  my  fate  been  sealed, 

And  with  it  thus  soon  my  life's  accomplished. 

This  much  in  death  be  granted  us — one  sepulchre. 

Hard  by  the  sepulchres  of  our  forefathers.  440 

Friar.  I  will,  and  more,  a  tablet  to  thee  raise, 

Of  deeds  as  noble  as  thou  hast  early  achieved ; 

There  peaceful  be  the  sleep  of  this  fair  pair, 

Than  whom  none  brighter  ere  on  earth  have  shone. 

Pure  fame,  true  beauty,  with  transcendant  worth,  445 

Kude  stone  !  beneath  thy  lettered  breast  be  laid — 

Go  hence,  to  others  speak  of  these  sad  things. 

O  house  of  death  and  sorrows  ! — it  seems  to  me 

A  very  charnel  hall,  with  rooms  dressed  up, 

With  the  lean  gloom  that  melancholy  wears.  450 

[.Exit  Friar. 


THE   CURTAIN    FALLS. 


Philadelphia  :— Printed  by  King  &  Baird. 


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